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W  a  s  h  i  n  g  t  on5    i  S  4  4  -  .1 9  2  5 


31 


-eale   da1 


THE 

GAMMANS  POETRY 

COLLECTION 


In  Memory  of 

GEORGE  H.  GAMMANS,  II 

Class  of  1940 

First  Lieutenant  Army  Air  Corps 

Distinguished  Service  Cross 

Missing  in  Action  January  15,  1943 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA  LIBRARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/oldcreoledayscabl 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00008112687 


Old   Creole   Days. 


Old  Creole  Days 


BY 


GEORGE    W.    CABLE 


(       I 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1883 


f 


Copyright,  1879,  1881,  1883,  by 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS. 


JTranklt'rt  $ress: 

BAND,  AVERT,  AND   COMPANY, 
BOSTON. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Madame  Delphine     , 1 

Cafe  des  Exiles 85 

Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation    ....  121 

"Posson  Jone'"     ■'.      ' 149 

Jean-ah  Poquelin 179 

»'Tite  Poulette 213 

'Sieur  George 247 

Madame  Delicieuse 271 


851128 


> 


Madame  Delphine. 


MADAME    DELPHINE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AN    OLD    HOUSE. 


A  few  steps  from  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  in  New 
Orleans,  brings  you  to  and  across  Canal  Street,  the 
central  avenue  of  the  city,  and  to  that  corner  where 
the  flower-women  sit  at  the  inner  and  outer  edges  of 
the  arcaded  sidewalk,  and  make  the  air  sweet  with 
their  fragrant  merchandise.  The  crowd  —  and  if  it  is 
n  3ar  the  time  of  the  carnival  it  will  be  great  —  will 
follow  Canal  Street. 

But  you  turn,  instead,  into  the  quiet,  narrow  way 
which  a  lover  of  Creole  antiquity,  in  fondness  for  a 
romantic  past,  is  still  prone  to  call  the  Rue  Royale. 
You  will  pass  a  few  restaurants,  a  few  auction-rooms, 
a  few  furniture  warehouses,  and  will  hardly  realize  that 
you  have  left  behind  you  the  activity  and  clatter  of  a 
city  of  merchants  before  you  find  yourself  in  a  region 
of  architectural  decrepitude,  where  an  ancient  and 
foreign-seeming  domestic  life,  in  second  stories,  over- 
hangs the  ruins  of  a  former  commercial  prosperity,  and 

l 


2  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

upon  every  thing  has  settled  down  a  long  sabbath  of 
decay.  The  vehicles  in  the  street  are  few  in  number, 
and  are  merely  passing  through  ;  the  stores  are  shrunk- 
en into  shops  ;  you  see  here  and  there,  like  a  patch  of 
bright  mould,  the  stall  of  that  significant  fungus,  the 
Chinaman.  Many  great  doors  are  shut  and  clamped 
and  grown  gray  with  cobweb  ;  many  street  windows 
are  nailed  up ;  half  the  balconies  are  begrimed  and 
rust-eaten,  and  many  of  the  humid  arches  and  alleys 
which  characterize  the  older  Franco-Spanish  piles  of 
stuccoed  brick  betray  a  squalor  almost  oriental. 

Yet  beauty  lingers  here.  To  say  nothing  of  the  pic- 
turesque, sometimes  you  get  sight  of  comfort,  some- 
times of  opulence,  through  the  unlatched  wicket  in 
some  porte-cochere  —  red-painted  brick  pavement,  foli- 
age of  dark  palm  or  pale  banana,  marble  or  granite 
masonry  and  blooming  parterres  ;  or  through  a  chink 
between  some  pair  of  heavy  batten  window-shutters, 
opened  with  an  almost  reptile  wariness,  your  eye  gets 
a  glimpse  of  lace  and  brocade  upholstery,  silver  and 
bronze,  and  much  similar  rich  antiquity. 

The  faces  of  the  inmates  are  in  keeping ;  of  the 
passengers  in  the  street  a  sad  proportion  are  dingy 
and  shabby ;  but  just  when  these  are  putting  you  off 
your  guard,  there  will  pass  you  a  woman  —  more 
likely  two  or  three  —  of  patrician  beauty. 

Now,  if  you  will  go  far  enough  down  this  old  street, 

you  will  see,  as  you  approach  its  intersection  with . 

Names  in  that  region  elude  one  like  ghosts. 

However,  as  you  begin  to  find  the  way  a  trifle  more 
open,  3tou  will  not  fail  to  notice  on  the  right-hand  side, 


MADAME  DELPUINE.  3 

about  midway  of  the  square,  a  small,  low,  brick  house 
of  a  story  and  a  half,  set  out  upon  the  sidewalk,  as 
weather-beateu  aud  mute  as  an  aged  beggar  fallen 
asleep.  Its  corrugated  roof  of  dull  red  tiles,  slopiug 
down  toward  you  with  an  inward  curve,  is  overgrown 
with  weeds,  and  in  the  fall  of  the  year  is  gay  with  the 
yellow  plumes  of  the  golden-rod.  You  can  almost 
touch  with  your  cane  the  low  edge  of  the  broad,  over- 
hanging eaves.  The  batten  shutters  at  door  and  win- 
dow, with  hiuges  like  those  of  a  postern,  are  shut  with 
a  grip  that  makes  one's  knuckles  and  nails  feel  lacer- 
ated. Save  in  the  brick- work  itself  there  is  not  a 
cranny.  You  would  say  the  house  has  the  lockjaw. 
There  are  two  doors,  and  to  each  a  single  chipped  and 
battered  marble  step.  Continuing  on  down  the  side- 
walk, on  a  line  with  the  house,  is  a  garden  masked 
from  view  by  a  high,  close  board-fence.  You  may 
see  the  tops  of  its  fruit-trees  —  pomegranate,  peach, 
banana,  fig,  pear,  and  particularly  one  large  orange, 
close  by  the  fence,  that  must  be  very  old. 

The  residents  over  the  narrow  way,  who  live  in  a 
three-story  house,  originally  of  much  pretension,  but 
from  whose  front  door  hard  times  have  removed  al- 
most all  vestiges  of  paint,  will  tell  you : 
"  Yass,  de  'ouse  is  in'abit ;  'tis  live  in." 
And  this  is  likely  to  be  all  the  information  you  get — 
not  that  they  would  not  tell,  but  they  cannot  grasp  the 
idea  that  you  wish  to  know  —  until,  possibly,  just  as 
you  are  turning  to  depart,  your  informant,  in  a  single 
word  and  with  the  most  evident  non-appreciation  of  its 
value,  drops  the  simple  key  to  the  whole  matter : 


4  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

"Dey's  quadroons." 

He  may  then  be  aroused  to  mention  the  better  ap- 
pearance of  the  place  in  former  years,  when  the  houses 
of  this  region  generally  stood  farther  apart,  and  that 
garden  comprised  the  whole  square. 

Here  dwelt,  sixty  years  ago  and  more,  one  Delphine 
Carraze ;  or,  as  she  was  commonly  designated  by  the 
few  who  knew  her,  Madame  Delphine.  That  she 
owned  her  home,  and  that  it  had  been  given  her  by  the 
then  deceased  companion  of  her  days  of  beauty,  were 
facts  so  generally  admitted  as  to  be,  even  as  far  back 
as  that  sixty  years  ago,  no  longer  a  subject  of  gossip. 
She  was  never  pointed  out  by  the  denizens  of  the  quar- 
ter as  a  character,  nor  her  house  as  a  "  feature."  It 
would  have  passed  all  Creole  powers  of  guessing  to 
divine  what  you  could  find  worthy  of  inquiry  concern- 
ing a  retired  quadroon  woman  ;  and  not  the  least  puz- 
zled of  all  would  have  been  the  timid  and  restive 
Madame  Delphine  herself. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MADAME   DELPHINE. 


During  the  first  quarter  of  the  present  century,  the 
free  quadroon  caste  of  New  Orleans  was  in  its  golden 
age.  Earlier  generations — sprung,  upon  the  one  hand, 
from  the  merry  gallants  of  a  French  colonial  military 
service  which  had  grown  gross  by  affiliation  with  Span- 


MADAME  BELPHINE.  5 

ish-American  frontier  life,  and,  upon  the  other  hand, 
from  comely  Ethiopians  culled  out  of  the  less  negroi- 
dal  types  of  African  live  goods,  and  bought  at  the 
ship's  side  with  vestiges  of  quills  and  cowries  and 
copper  wire  still  in  their  head-dresses,  —  these  earlier 
generations,  with  scars  of  battle  or  private  rencontre 
still  on  the  fathers,  and  of  servitude  on  the  manumit- 
ted mothers,  afforded  a  mere  hint  of  the  splendor  that 
was  to  result  from  a  survival  of  the  fairest  through 
seventy-five  years  devoted  to  the  elimination  of  the 
black  pigment  and  the  cultivation  of  hyperian  excel- 
lence and  nymphean  grace  and  beauty.  Nor,  if  we 
turn  to  the  present,  is  the  evidence  much  stronger 
which  is  offered  by  the  gens  de  couleur  whom  you  may 
see  in  the  quadroon  quarter  this  afternoon,  with  "  Icha- 
bod  "  legible  on  their  murky  foreheads  through  a  vain 
smeariug  of  toilet  powder,  dragging  their  chairs  down 
to  the  narrow  gateway  of  their  close-fenced  gardens, 
and  staring  shrinkingly  at  you  as  you  pass,  like  a  nest 
of  yellow  kittens. 

But  as  the  present  century  was  in  its  second  and 
third  decades,  the  quadroones  (for  we  must  contrive  a 
feminine  spelling  to  define  the  strict  limits  of  the  caste 
as  then  established)  came  forth  in  splendor.  Old  trav- 
ellers spare  no  terms  to  tell  their  praises,  their  faultless- 
ness  of  feature,  their  perfection  of  form,  their  varied 
styles  of  oeauty,  —  for  there  were  even  pure  Caucasian 
blondes  among  them,  — their  fascinating  manners,  their 
sparkling  vivacity,  their  chaste  and  pretty  wit,  their 
grace  in  the  dance,  their  modest  propriety,  their  taste 
and   elegance  in   dress.      In   the   gentlest   and   most 


6  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

poetic  sense  they  were  indeed  the  sirens  of  this  land, 
where  it  seemed  "  alwaj^s  afternoon"  —  a  momentary 
triumph  of  an  Arcadian  over  a  Christian  civilization,  so 
beautiful  and  so  seductive  that  it  became  the  subject 
of  special  chapters  by  writers  of  the  day  more  original 
than  correct  as  social  philosophers. 

The  balls  that  were  got  up  for  them  by  the  male 
sang-pur  were  to  that  day  what  the  carnival  is  to  the 
present.  Society  balls  given  the  same  nights  proved 
failures  through  the  coincidence.  The  magnates  of 
government, — municipal,  state,  federal,  —  those  of  the 
army,  of  the  learned  professions  and  of  the  clubs,  —  in 
short,  the  white  male  aristocracy  in  every  thing  save 
the  ecclesiastical  desk,  —  were  there.  Tickets  were 
high-priced  to  insure  the  exclusion  of  the  vulgar.  No 
distinguished  stranger  was  allowed  to  miss  them. 
They  were  beautiful !  They  were  clad  in  silken  ex- 
tenuations from  the  throat  to  the  feet,  and  wore, 
withal,  a  pathos  in  their  charm  that  gave  them  a  family 
likeness  to  innocenee. 

Madame  Delphine,  were  you  not  a  stranger,  could 
have  told  37ou  all  about  it ;  though  hardly,  I  suppose, 
without  tears. 

But  at  the  time  of  which  we  would  speak  (1821-22) 
her  day  of  splendor  wus  set,  and  her  husband  —  let  us 
call  him  so  for  her  sake  —  was  long  dead.  He  was  an 
American,  and,  if  we  take  her  word  for  it,  a  man  of 
noble  heart  and  extremely  handsome ;  but  this  is 
knowledge  which  we  can  do  without. 

Even  in  those  days  the  house  was  always  shut,  and 
Madame  Delphine 's  chief  occupation  and  end  in  life 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  7 

seemed  to  be  to  keep  well  locked  up  iu-doors.  She 
was  an  excellent  person,  the  neighbors  said,  —  a  very 
worthy  person ;  and  they  were,  maybe,  nearer  correct 
then  they  knew.  They  rarely  saw  her  save  when  she 
went  to  or  returned  from  church  ;  a  small,  rather  tired- 
looking,  dark  quadroone  of  very  good  features  and  a 
gentle  thoughtfulness  of  expression  which  would  take 
long  to  describe  :  call  it  a  widow's  look. 

In  speaking  of  Madame  Delphine's  house,  mention 
should  have  been  made  of  a  gate  in  the  fence  on  the 
Royal-street  sidewalk.  It  is  gone  now,  and  was  out 
of  use  then,  being  fastened  once  for  all  by  an  iron 
staple  clasping  the  cross-bar  and  driven  into  the 
post. 

Which  leads  us  to  speak  of  another  person. 


CHAPTER   III. 

CAPITAINE    LEMAITRE. 


He  was  one  of  those  men  that  might  be  any  age,  — 
thirty,  forty,  forty-five  ;  there  was  no  telling  from  his 
face  what  was  years  and  what  was  only  weather.  His 
countenance  was  of  a  grave  and  quiet,  but  also  lumi- 
nous, sort,  which  was  instantly  admired  and  ever 
afterward  remembered,  as  was  also  the  fineness  of  his 
hair  and  the  blueness  of  his  eyes.  Those  pronounced 
him  youngest  who  scrutinized  his  face  the  closest. 
Rut  waiving  the  discussion  of  age,  he  was  odd,  though 


8  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

not  with  the  oddness  that  he  who  had  reared  him 
had  striven  to  produce. 

He  had  not  been  brought  up  by  mother  or  father. 
He  had  lost  both  in  infancy,  and  had  fallen  to  the  care 
of  a  rugged  old  military  grandpa  of  the  colonial  school, 
whose  unceasing  endeavor  had  been  to  make  "  his 
boy ' '  as  savage  and  ferocious  a  holder  of  unimpeach- 
able social  rank  as  it  became  a  pure-blooded  French 
Creole  to  be  who  would  trace  his  pedigree  back  to  the 
god  Mars. 

"  Remember,  my  boy,"  was  the  adjuration  received 
by  him  as  regularly  as  his  waking  cup  of  black  coffee, 
"  that  none  of  your  family  line  ever  kept  the  laws  of 
any  government  or  creed."  And  if  it  was  well  that 
he  should  bear  this  in  mind,  it  was  well  to  reiterate  it 
persistently,  for,  from  the  nurse's  arms,  the  boy  wore 
a  look,  not  of  docility  so  much  as  of  gentle,  judicial 
benevolence.  The  domestics  of  the  old  man's  house 
used  to  shed  tears  of  laughter  to  see  that  look  on  the 
face  of  a  babe.  His  rude  guardian  addressed  himself 
to  the  modification  of  this  facial  expression  ;  it  had  not 
enough  of  majesty  in  it,  for  instance,  or  of  large  dare- 
deviltry  ;  but  with  care  these  could  be  made  to  come. 

And,  true  enough,  at  twenty-one  (in  Ursin  Lemai- 
tre) ,  the  labors  of  his  grandfather  were  an  apparent 
success.  He  was  not  rugged,  nor  was  he  loud-spoken, 
as  his  venerable  trainer  would  have  liked  to  present 
him  to  society ;  but  he  was  as  serenely  terrible  as  a 
well-aimed  rifle,  and  the  old  man  looked  upon  his  re- 
sults with  pride.  He  had  cultivated  him  up  to  that 
pitch  where  he  scorned  to  practise   any  vice,  or  any 


MADAME  DELPIIINE.  9 

virtue,  that  did  not  include  the  principle  of  self-asser- 
tion. A  few  touches  only  were  wanting  here  and  there 
to  achieve  perfection,  when  suddenly  the  old  man  died. 
Yet  it  was  his  proud  satisfaction,  before  he  finally  lay 
down,  to  see  Ursin  a  favored  companion  and  the  peer, 
both  in  courtesy  and  pride,  of  those  polished  gentle- 
men famous  in  history,  the  brothers  Lafitte. 

The  two  Lafittes  were,  at  the  time  young  Lemaitre 
reached  his  majority  (say  1808  or  1812),  only  mer- 
chant-blacksmiths, so  to  speak,  a  term  intended  to 
convey  the  idea  of  blacksmiths  who  never  soiled  their 
hands,  who  were  men  of  capital,  stood  a  little  higher 
than  the  clergy,  and  moved  in  society  among  its  auto- 
crats. But  they  were  full  of  possibilities,  men  of 
action,  and  men,  too,  of  thought,  with  already  a  pro- 
nounced disbelief  in  the  custom-house.  In  these  days 
of  big  carnivals  they  would  have  been  patented  as  the 
dukes  of  Little  Manchac  and  Barataria. 

Young  Ursin  Lemaitre  (in  full  the  name  was  Le- 
maitre-Vignevielle)  had  not  only  the  hearty  friendship 
of  these  good  people,  but  also  a  natural  turn  for  ac- 
counts ;  and  as  his  two  friends  were  looking  about  them 
with  an  enterprising  eye,  it  easily  resulted  that  he 
presently  connected  himself  with  the  blacksmithing 
profession.  Not  exactly  at  the  forge  in  the  Lafittes' 
famous  smithy,  among  the  African  Samsons,  who, 
with  their  shining  black  bodies  bared  to  the  waist, 
made  the  Hue  St.  Pierre  ring  with  the  stroke  of  their 
hammers  ;  but  as  a  —  there  was  no  occasion  to  mince 
the  word  in  those  days  —  smuggler. 

Smuggler  —  patriot  —  where    was    the    difference  ? 


10  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

Beyond  the  ken  of  a  community  to  which  the  enforce- 
ment of  the  revenue  laws  had  long  been  merely  so 
much  out  of  every  man's  pocket  and  dish,  into  the 
all-devouring  treasury  of  Spain.  At  this  date  they 
had  come  under  a  kinder  yoke,  and  to  a  treasury  that 
at  least  echoed  when  the  customs  were  dropped  into  it ; 
but  the  change  was  still  new.  "What  could  a  man  be 
more  than  Capitaine  Lemaitre  was  —  the  soul  of  honor, 
the  pink  of  courtesy,  with  the  courage  of  the  lion,  and 
the  magnanimity  of  the  elephant ;  frank  —  the  very 
exchequer  of  truth !  Nay,  go  higher  still :  his  paper 
was  good  in  Toulouse  Street.  To  the  gossips  in  the 
gaming-clubs  he  was  the  culminating  proof  that  smug- 
gling was  one  of  the  sublimer  virtues. 

Years  went  by.  Events  transpired  which  have  their 
place  in  history.  Under  a  government  which  the  com- 
munity by  and  by  saw  was  conducted  in  their  interest, 
smuggling  began  to  lose  its  respectability  and  to  grow 
disreputable,  hazardous,  and  debased.  In  certain  on- 
slaughts made  upon  them  by  officers  of  the  law,  some 
of  the  smugglers  became  murderers.  The  business 
became  unprofitable  for  a  time  until  the  enterprising 
Lafittes  —  thinkers  —  bethought  them  of  a  corrective 
—  "  privateering." 

Thereupon  the  United  States  Government  set  a  price 
upon  their  heads.  Later  yet  it  became  known  that 
these  outlawed  pirates  had  been  offered  money  and 
rank  by  Great  Britain  if  they  would  join  her  standard, 
then  hovering  about  the  water- approaches  to  their  na- 
tive city,  and  that  they  had  spurned  the  bribe  ;  where- 
fore their  heads  were  ruled  out  of  the   market,  and, 


MADAME  BELPUINE.  11 

meeting  and  treating  with  Andrew  Jackson,  they  were 
received  as  lovers  of  their  country,  and  as  compatriots 
fought  in  the  battle  of  New  Orleans  at  the  head  of 
their  fearless  men,  and  —  here  tradition  takes  up  the 
tale  —  were  never  seen  afterward. 

Capitaine   Lemaitre   was  not   among    the  killed  or 
wounded,  but  he  was  among  the  missing. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


THREE    FRIENDS. 


The  roundest  and  happiest-looking  priest  in  the  city 
of  New  Orleans  was  a  little  man  fondly  known  among 
his  people  as  Pere  Jerome.  He  was  a  Creole  and  a 
member  of  one  of  the  city's  leading  families.  His 
dwelling  was  a  little  frame  cottage,  standing  on  high 
pillars  just  inside  a  tall,  close  fence,  and  reached  by  a 
narrow  out-door  stair  from  the  green  batten  gate.  It 
was  well  surrounded  by  crape  myrtles,  and  communi- 
cated behind  by  a  descending  stair  and  a  plank-walk 
with  the  rear  entrance  of  the  chapel  over  whose  wor- 
shippers he  daily  spread  his  hands  in  benediction. 
The  name  of  the  street  —  ah !  there  is  where  light  is 
wanting.  Save  the  Cathedral  and  the  Ursulines,  there 
is  very  little  of  record  concerning  churches  at  that 
time,  though  they  were  springing  up  here  and  there. 
All  there  is  certainty  of  is  that  Pere  Jerome's  frame 
chapel  was  some  little  new-born  "  down-town"  thing, 


12  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

that  may  have  survived  the  passage  of  years,  or  may 
have  escaped  "  Paxton's  Directory  "  "  so  as  by  fire." 
His  parlor  was  dingy  and  carpetless  ;  one  could  smell 
distinctly  there  the  vow  of  poverty.  His  bed-chamber 
was  bare  and  clean,  and  the  bed  in  it  narrow  and  hard  ; 
but  between  the  two  was  a  dining-room  that  would 
tempt  a  laugh  to  the  lips  of  any  who  looked  in.  The 
table  was  small,  but  stout,  and  all  the  furniture  of  the 
room  substantial,  made  of  fine  wood,  and  carved  just 
enough  to  give  the  notion  of  wrinkling  pleasantry. 
His  mother's  and  sister's  doing,  Pere  Jerome  would 
explain  ;  they  would  not  permit  this  apartment  —  or 
department  —  to  suffer.  Therein,  as  well  as  in  the 
parlor,  there  was  odor,  but  of  a  more  epicurean  sort, 
that  explained  interestingly  the  Pere  Jerome's  rotund- 
ity and  rosy  smile. 

In  this  room,  and  about  this  miniature  round  table, 
used  sometimes  to  sit  with  Pere  Jerome  two  friends  to 
whom  he  was  deeply  attached  —  one,  Evariste  Varril- 
lat,  a  playmate  from  early  childhood,  now  his  brother- 
in-law  ;  the  other,  Jean  Thompson,  a  companion  from 
youngest  manhood,  and  both,  like  the  little  priest  him- 
self, the  regretful  rememberers  of  a  fourth  comrade 
who  was  a  comrade  no  more.  Like  Pere  Jerome,  they 
had  come,  through  years,  to  the  thick  of  life's  conflicts, 
—  the  priest's  brother-in-law  a  physician,  the  other  an 
attorney,  and  brother-in-law  to  the  lonely  wanderei, — 
yet  they  loved  to  huddle  around  this  small  board,  and 
be  boys  again  in  heart  while  men  in  mind.  Neither 
one  nor  another  was  leader.  In  earlier  days  they  had 
always  yielded  to  him  who  no  longer  met  with  them  a 


MADAME  DELPIIINE.  13 

certain  chief tahiship,  and  they  still  thought  of  him  and 
talked  of  him,  and,  in  their  conjectures,  groped  after 
him,  as  one  of  whom  they  continued  to  expect  greater 
things  than  of  themselves. 

They  sat  one  day  drawn  thus  close  together,  sipping 
and  theorizing,  speculating  upon  the  nature  of  things 
in  an  easy,  bold,  sophomoric  way,  the  conversation  for 
the  most  part  being  in  French,  the  native  tongue  of 
the  doctor  and  priest,  and  spoken  with  facility  by  Jean 
Thompson  the  lawyer,  who  was  half  Am6ricain ;  but 
running  sometimes  into  English  and  sometimes  into 
mild  laughter.  Mention  had  been  made  of  the  ab- 
sentee. 
Pere  Jerome  advanced  an  idea  something  like  this  : 
"It  is  impossible  for  any  finite  mind  to  fix  the 
degree  of  criminality  of  any  human  act  or  of  any  hu- 
man life.  The  Infinite  One  alone  can  know  how  much 
of  our  sin  is  chargeable  to  us,  and  how  much  to  our 
brothers  or  our  fathers.  We  all  participate  in  one 
another's  sins.  There  is  a  community  of  responsibility 
attaching  to  every  misdeed.  No  human  since  Adam 
—  nay,  nor  Adam  himself  —  ever  sinned  entirely  to 
himself.  And  so  I  never  am  called  upon  to  contem- 
plate a  crime  or  a  criminal  but  I  feel  my  conscience 
pointing  at  me  as  one  of  the  accessories." 

"In  a  word,"  said  Evariste  Varrillat,  the  physi- 
cian, "  you  think  we  are  partly  to  blame  for  the  omis- 
sion of  many  of  your  Paternosters,  eh?" 

Father  Jerome  smiled.  < 

' '  No ;  a  man  cannot  plead  so  in  his  own  defence ; 
our  first  father  tried  that,  but  the  plea  was  not  al- 


14  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

lowed.  But,  now,  there  is  our  absent  friend.  I  tell 
you  truly  this  whole  community  ought  to  be  recognized 
as  partners  in  his  moral  errors.  Among  another  peo- 
ple, reared  under  wiser  care  and  with  better  compan- 
ions, how  different  might  he  not  have  been !  Haw 
can  we  speak  of  him  as  a  law-breaker  who  might  have 
saved  him  from  that  name  ?  ' '  Here  the  speaker  turned 
to  Jean  Thompson,  and  changed  his  speech  to  Eng- 
lish. "A  lady  sez  to  me  to-day:  'Pere  Jerome,  'ow 
dat  is  a  dreadfool  dat  'e  gone  at  de  coas'  of  Cuba  to 
be  one  corsair!  Ain't  it?'  'Ah,  madame,'  I  sez, 
'  'tis  a  terrible  !  I  'ope  de  good  God  will  fo'give  me 
an'  you  fo'  dat!'" 

Jean  Thompson  answered  quickly : 

"You  should  not  have  let  her  say  that." 

"Mais,  fo'  w'y  ?" 

"Why,  because,  if  you  are  partly  responsible,  you 
ought  so  much  the  more  to  do  what  you  can  to  shield 
his  reputation.  You  should  have  said," — the  attor- 
ney changed  to  French,  —  "  '  He  is  no  pirate  ;  he  has 
merely  taken  out  letters  of  marque  and  reprisal  un- 
der the  flag  of  the  republic  of  Carthagena  ! '  " 

"  Ah,  bah!"  exclaimed  Doctor  Varrillat,  and  both 
he  and  his  brother-in-law,  the  priest,  laughed. 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Thompson. 

"Oh!  "  said  the  plrysician,  with  a  shrug,  "  say  id 
thacl  way  iv  you  wand." 

Then,  suddenly  becoming  serious,  he  was  about  to 
add  something  else,  when  Pere  Jerome  spoke. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  could  have  said.  I  could 
have  said  :  '  Madame,  yes  ;  'tis  a  terrible  fo'  him.    He 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  15 

stum'le  in  de  dark ;  but  dat  good  God  will  mek  it  a 
mo'  terrible  fo'  dat  mau  oohever  he  is,  w'at  put  'at 
light  out!'" 

"  But  how  do  you  know  he  is  a  pirate?  "  demanded 
Thompson,  aggressively. 

"  How  do  we  know?  "  said  the  little  priest,  return- 
ing to  French.  "Ah!  there  is  no  other  explanation 
of  the  ninety-and-nine  stories  that  come  to  us,  from 
every  port  where  ships  arrive  from  the  north  coast  of 
Cuba,  of  a  commander  of  pirates  there  who  is  a  mar- 
vel of  courtesy  and  gentility  "  — 1 

"And  whose  name  is  Lafitte,"  said  the  obstinate 
attorney. 

"And  who,  nevertheless,  is  not  Lafitte,"  insisted 
Pere  Jerome. 

"  Daz  troo,  Jean,"  said  Doctor  Varrillat.  "We 
hall  know  daz  troo." 

Pere  Jerome  leaned  forward  over  the  board  and 
spoke,  with  an  air  of  secrecy,  in  French. 

"  You  have  heard  of  the  ship  which  came  into  port 
here  last  Monday.  You  have  heard  that  she  was 
boarded  by  pirates,  and  that  the  captain  of  the  ship 
himself  drove  them  off." 

"An  incredible  story,"  said  Thompson. 

"  But  not  so  incredible  as  the  truth.  I  have  it  from 
a  passenger.  There  was  on  the  ship  a  young  girl  who 
was  very  beautiful.  She  came  on  deck,  where  the 
corsair  stood,  about  to  issue  his  orders,  and,  more 
beautiful  than  ever  in  the  desperation  of  the  moment, 
confronted  him  with  a  small  missal  spread  open,  and, 

1  See  gazettes  of  the  period. 


16  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

her  finger  on  the  Apostles'  Creed,  commanded  him  to 
read.  He  read  it,  uncovering  bis  head  as  he  read,  then 
stood  gazing  on  her  face,  which  did  not  quail ;  and 
then  with  a  low  bow,  said  :  '  Give  me  this  book  and  I 
will  do  your  bidding.'  She  gave  him  the  book  and 
bade  him  leave  the  ship,  and  he  left  it  unmolested." 

Pere  Jerome  looked  from  the  physician  to  the  attor- 
ney and  back  again,  once  or  twice,  with  his  dimpled 
smile. 

"But  he  speaks  English,  they  say,"  said  Jean 
Thompson. 

"He  has,  no  doubt,  learned  it  since  he  left  us," 
said  the  priest. 

"  But  this  ship-master,  too,  says  his  men  called  him 
Lafitte." 

"Lafitte?  No.  Do  you  not  see?  It  is  your  brother- 
in-law,  Jean  Thompson!  It  is  your  wife's  brother! 
Not  Lafitte,  but"  (softly)  "  Lemaitre !  Lemaitre! 
Capitaine  Ursin  Lemaitre  !  " 

The  two  guests  looked  at  each  other  with  a  growing 
drollery  on  either  face,  and  presently  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  doctor,  as  the  three  rose  up,  "  you 
juz  kip  dad  cog-an'-bull  fo'  yo'  negs  summon." 

Pere  Jerome's  eyes  lighted  up  — 

"I  goin'  to  do  it!" 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Evariste,  turning  upon  him  with 
sudden  gravity,  "  iv  dad  is  troo,  I  tell  you  w'ad  is 
sure-sure !  Ursin  Lemaitre  din  kyare  nut'n  fo'  doze 
creed  ;  he  fall  in  love ! ' ' 

Then,  with  a  smile,  turning  to  Jean  Thompson,  and 
back  again  to  Pere  Jerome  : 


MADAME  DELPUINE.  17 

"But  auny'ow  you  tell  it  iu  clad  summon  dad  'e 
kyare  fo'  dad  creed." 

Pere  Jerome  sat  up  late  that  night,  writing  a  letter. 
The  remarkable  effects  upon  a  certain  mind,  effects 
which  we  shall  presently  find  him  attributing  solely  to 
the  influences  of  surrounding  nature,  may  find  for  some 
a  more  sufficient  explanation  in  the  fact  that  this  letter 
was  but  one  of  a  series,  and  that  in  the  rover  of  doubted 
identity  and  incredible  eccentricity  Pere  Jerome  had  a 
regular  correspondent. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    CAP   FITS. 

About  two  months  after  the  conversation  just  given, 
and  therefore  somewhere  about  the  Christmas  holidays 
of  the  year  1821,  Pere  Jerome  delighted  the  congrega- 
tion of  his  little  chapel  with  the  announcement  that  he 
had  appointed  to  preach  a  sermon  in  French  on  the 
following  sabbath  —  not  there,  but  in  the  cathedral. 

He  was  much  beloved.  Notwithstanding  that  among 
the  clergy  there  were  two  or  three  who  shook  their  heads 
and  raised  their  eyebrows,  and  said  he  would  be  at 
least  as  orthodox  if  he  did  not  make  quite  so  much  of 
the  Bible  and  quite  so  little  of  the  dogmas,  yet  "the 
common  people  heard  him  gladly."  When  told,  one 
day,  of  the  unfavorable  whispers,  he  smiled  a  little 
and  answered  his  informant,  —  whom  he  knew  to  be 


18  OLD    CREOLE  DAYS. 

one  of  the  whisperers  himself,  —  laying  a  hand  kindly 
upon  his  shoulder : 

"  Father  Murphy,"  —  or  whatever  the  name  was,  — 
"  37our  words  comfort  me." 

"How  is  that?" 

"Because  — '  Vce  quum  benedixerint  mild  homi- 
nes!' "* 

The  appointed  morning,  when  it  came,  was  one  of 
those  exquisite  days  in  which  there  is  such  a  universal 
harmony,  that  worship  rises  from  the  heart  like  a 
spring. 

"Truly,"  said  Pere  Jerome  to  the  companion  who 
was  to  assist  him  in  the  mass,  "  this  is  a  sabbath  day 
which  we  do  not  have  to  make  holy,  but  only  to  keep 
so." 

Maybe  it  was  one  of  the  secrets  of  Pere  Jerome's 
success  as  a  preacher,  that  he  took  more  thought  as  to 
how  he  should  feel,  than  as  to  what  he  should  say. 

The  cathedral  of  those  days  was  called  a  very  plain 
old  pile,  boasting  neither  beautj-  nor  riches ;  but  to 
Pere  Jerome  it  was  very  lovely  ;  and  before  its  homely 
altar,  not  homely  to  him,  in  the  performance  of  those 
solemn  offices,  symbols  of  heaven's  mightiest  truths, 
in  the  hearing  of  the  organ's  harmonies,  and  the  yet 
more  eloquent  interunion  of  human  voices  in  the  choir, 
in  overlooking  the  worshipping  throng  which  knelt 
under  the  soft,  chromatic  lights,  and  in  breathing  the 
sacrificial  odors  of  the  chancel,  he  found,  a  deep  and 
solemn  joy ;  and  }-et  I  guess  the  finest  thought  of  his 
soul  the  while  was  one  that  came  thrice  and  again  : 

1  "  Woe  unto  me  when  all  men  speak  well  of  me  I " 


MADAME  DELPUINE.  19 

"  Be  not  deceived,  Pere  Jerome,  because  saintliness 
of  feeling  is  easy  here  ;  you  are  the  same  priest  who 
overslept  this  morning,  and  over-ate  yesterday,  and 
will,  in  some  way,  easily  go  wrong  to-morrow  and  the 
day  after." 

He  took  it  with  him  when  —  the  Veni  Creator  sung 

—  he  went  into  the  pulpit.  Of  the  sermon  he  preached, 
tradition  has  preserved  for  us  only  a  few  brief  say- 
ings, but  they  are  strong  and  sweet. 

"My  friends,"  he  said, — this  was  near  the  begin- 
ning,—  "the  angry  words  of  God's  book  are  very 
merciful  —  they  are  meant  to  drive  us  home  ;  but  the 
tender  words,  my  friends,  they  are  sometimes  terrible  ! 
Notice  these,  the  tenderest  words  of  the  tenderest 
prayer  that  ever  came  from  the  lips  of  a  blessed  martyr 

—  the  dying  words  of  the  holy  Saint  Stephen,  '  Lord, 
lay  not  this  sin  to  their  charge.'  Is  there  nothing 
dreadful  in  that?  Eead  it  thus:  '  Lord,  lay  not  this 
sin  to  their  charge.'  Not  to  the  charge  of  them  who 
stoned  him  ?  To  whose  charge  then  ?  Go  ask  the  holy 
Saint  Paul.  Three  years  afterward,  praying  in  the 
temple  at  Jerusalem,  he  answered  that  question  :  '  I 
stood  by  and  consented.'  He  answered  for  himself 
only  ;  but  the  Day  must  come  when  all  that  wicked 
council  that  sent  Saint  Stephen  away  to  be  stoned,  and 
all  that  city  of  Jerusalem,  must  hold  up  the  hand  and 
say:  'We,  also,  Lord  —  we  stood  by.'  Ah!  friends, 
under  the  simpler  meaning  of  that  dying  saint's  prayer 
for  the  pardon  of  his  murderers  is  hidden  the  terrible 
truth  that  we  all  have  a  share  in  one  another's  sins." 

Thus  Pere  Jerome  touched  his  key-note.     All  that 


20  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

time  has  spared  us  beside  may  be  given  in  a  few  sen- 
tences. 

"  Ah !  "  he  cried  once,  "if  it  were  merely  my  own 
sins  that  I  had  to  answer  for,  I  might  hold  up  my  head 
before  the  rest  of  mankind  ;  but  no,  no,  1113'  friends  — 
we  cannot  look  each  other  in  the  face,  for  each  has 
helped  the  other  to  sin.  Oh,  where  is  there  any  room, 
in  this  world  of  common  disgrace,  for  pride?  Even 
if  we  had  no  common  hope,  a  common  despair  ought 
to  bind  us  together  and  forever  silence  the  voice  of 
scorn  ! ' ' 

And  again,  this : 

"  Even  in  the  promise  to  Noe,  not  again  to  destroy 
the  race  with  a  flood,  there  is  a  whisper  of  solemn 
warning.  The  moral  account  of  the  antediluvians  was 
closed  off  and  the  balance  brought  down  in  the  year 
of  the  deluge  ;  but  the  account  of  those  who  come  after 
runs  on  and  on,  and  the  blessed  bow  of  promise  itself 
warns  us  that  God  will  not  stop  it  till  the  Judgment 
Day  !  0  God,  I  thank  thee  that  that  day  must  come  at 
last,  when  thou  wilt  destroy  the  world,  and  stop  the 
interest  on  my  account ! ' ' 

It  was  about  at  this  point  that  Pere  Jerome  noticed, 
more  particularly  than  he  had  done  before,  sitting 
among  the  worshippers- near  him,  a  small,  sad-faced 
woman,  of  pleasing  features,  but  dark  and  faded,  who 
gave  him  profound  attention.  With  her  was  another  in 
better  dress,  seemingly  a  girl  still  in  her  teens,  though 
her  face  and  neck  were  scrupulously  concealed  by  a 
heavy  veil,  and  her  hands,  which  were  small,  by  gloves. 

"  Quadroones,"  thought  he,  with  a  stir  of  deep  pity. 


MADAME  JDELPUINE.  21 

Once,  as  he  uttered  some  stirring  word,  he  saw  the 
mother  and  daughter  (if  such  they  were) ,  while  they 
still  bent  their  gaze  upon  him,  clasp  each  other's  hand 
fervently  in  the  daughter's  lap.     It  was  at  these  words  : 

"  My  friends,  there  are  thousands  of  people  in  this 
city  of  New  Orleans  to  whom  society  gives  the  ten 
commandments  of  God  with  all  the  nots  rubbed  out ! 
Ah  !  good  gentlemen  !  if  God  sends  the  poor  weakling 
to  purgatory  for  leaving  the  right  path,  where  ought 
some  of  you  to  go  who  strew  it  with  thorns  and  briers  ! ' ' 

The  movement  of  the  pair  was  only  seen  because  he 
watched  for  it.     He  glanced  that  way  again  as  he  said  : 

"O  God,  be  very  gentle  with  those  children  who 
would  be  nearer  heaven  this  day  had  they  never  had  a 
father  and  mother,  but  had  got  their  religious  training 
from  such  a  sky  and  earth  as  we  have  in  Louisiana 
this  holy  morning  !  Ah  !  my  friends,  nature  is  a  big- 
print  catechism !  " 

The  mother  and  daughter  leaned  a  little  farther  for- 
ward, and  exchanged  the  same  spasmodic  hand-pressure 
as  before.     The  mother's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"I  once  knew  a  man,"  continued  the  little  priest, 
glancing  to  a  side  aisle  where  he  had  noticed  Evariste 
and  Jean  sitting  against  each  other,  "  who  was  care- 
fully taught,  from  infancy  to  manhood,  this  single  only 
principle  of  life  :  defiance.  Not  justice,  not  righteous- 
ness, not  even  gain  ;  but  defiance  :  defiance  to  God, 
defiance  to  man,  defiance  to  nature,  defiance  to  reason  ; 
defiance  and  defiance  and  defiance." 

"He  is  going  to  tell  it!"  murmured  Evariste  to 
Jean. 


22  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"This  man,"  continued  Pere  Jerome,  "became  a 
smuggler  and  at  last  a  pirate  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 
Lord,  lay  not  that  sin  to  his  charge  alone  !  But  a 
strange  thing  followed.  Being  in  command  of  men  of 
a  sort  that  to  control  required  to  be  kept  at  the  auster- 
est  distance,  he  now  found  himself  separated  from  the 
human  world  and  thrown  into  the  solemn  companion- 
ship with  the  sea,  with  the  air,  with  the  storm,  the  calm, 
the  heavens  by  day,  the  heavens  by  night.  My  friends, 
that  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  ever  found 
himself  in  really  good  company. 

"Now,  this  man  had  a  great  aptness  for  accounts. 
He  had  kept  them  —  had  rendered  them.  There  was 
beauty,  to  him,  in  a  correct,  balanced,  and  closed  ac- 
count. An  account  unsatisfied  was  a  deformity.  The 
result  is  plain.  That  man,  looking  out  night  after 
night  upon  the  grand  and  holy  spectacle  of  the  starry 
deep  above  and  the  watery  deep  below,  was  sure  to 
find  himself,  sooner  or  later,  mastered  by  the  convic- 
tion that  the  great  Author  of  this  majestic  creation 
keeps  account  of  it ;  and  one  night  there  came  to  him, 
like  a  spirit  walking  on  the  sea,  the  awful,  silent  ques- 
tion :  '  My  account  with  God  —  how  does  it  stand  ?  ' 
Ah !  friends,  that  is  a  question  which  the  book  of 
nature  does  not  answer. 

"  Did  I  say  the  book  of  nature  is  a  catechism?  Yes. 
But,  after  it  answers  the  first  question  with  'God,' 
nothing  but  questions  follow  ;  and  so,  one  day,  this 
man  gave  a  ship  full  of  merchandise  for  one  little  book 
which  answered  those  questions.  God  help  him  to 
understand  it !  and  God  help  you.  monsieur,  and  you, 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  23 

madaine,  sitting  here  in  your  smuggled  clothes,  to  beat 
upon  the  breast  with  me  and  cry,  'I,  too,  Lord  —  I, 
too,  stood  by  and  consented.'  " 

Pere  Jerome  had  not  intended  these  for  his  closing 
words  ;  but  just  there,  straight  away  before  his  sight 
and  almost  at  the  farthest  door,  a  man  rose  slowby  from 
his  seat  and  regarded  him  steadily  with  a  kind,  bronzed, 
sedate  face,  and  the  sermon,  as  if  by  a  sign  of  com- 
mand, was  ended.  While  the  Credo  was  being  chanted 
he  was  still  there ;  but  when,  a  moment  after  its 
close,  the  eye  of  Pere  Jerome  returned  in  that  direction, 
his  place  was  empty. 

As  the  little  priest,  his  labor  done  and  his  vestments 
changed,  was  turning  into  the  Rue  Royale  and  leaving 
the  cathedral  out  of  sight,  he  just  had  time  to  under- 
stand that  two  women  were  purposely  allowing  him  to 
overtake  them,  when  the  one  nearer  him  spoke  in  the 
Creole  patois,  sajing,  with  some  timid  haste  : 

"  Good-morning,  Pere  —  Pere  Jerome  ;  Pere  Jerome, 
we  thank  the  good  God  for  that  sermon." 

"  Then,  so  do  I,"  said  the  little  man.  They  were 
the  same  two  that  he  had  noticed  when  he  was  preach- 
ing. The  younger  one  bowed  silently ;  she  was  a 
beautiful  figure,  but  the  slight  effort  of  Pere  Jerome's 
kind  eyes  to  see  through  the  veil  was  vain.  He  would 
presently  have  passed  on,  but  the  one  who  had  spoken 
before  said : 

"  I  thought  you  lived  in  the  Rue  des  Ursulines." 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  going  this  way  to  see  a  sick  person." 

The  woman  looked  up  at  him  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  confidence  and  timidity. 


24  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"  It  must  be  a  blessed  thing  to  be  so  useful  as  to  be 
needed  by  the  good  God,"  she  said. 

Pere  Jerome  smiled : 

"  God  does  not  need  me  to  look  after  his  sick  ;  but 
he  allows  me  to  do  it,  just  as  you  let  }Tour  little  boy  in 
frocks  carry  in  chips."  He  might  have  added  that  he 
loved  to  do  it,  quite  as  much. 

It  was  plain  the  woman  had  somewhat  to  ask,  and 
was  trying  to  get  courage  to  ask  it. 

"  You  have  a  little  boy?  "  asked  the  priest. 

"  No,  I  have  only  nry  daughter ;  "  she  indicated  the 
girl  at  her  side.  Then  she  began  to  say  something 
else,  stopped,  and  with  much  nervousness  asked: 

"  Pere  Jerome,  what  was  the  name  of  that  man?  " 

"  His  name?  "  said  the  priest.  "  You  wish  to  know 
his  name?  " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  "  (or  Miche,  as  she  spoke  it)  ;  "  it 
was  such  a  beautiful  story."  The  speaker's  compan- 
ion looked  another  way. 

"His  name,"  said  Father  Jerome,  —  "  some  say 
one  name  and  some  another.  Some  think  it  was  Jean 
Lafitte,  the  famous  ;  you  have  heard  of  him?  And  do 
you  go  to  my  church,  Madame ?  " 

"  No,  Miche  ;  not  in  the  past ;  but  from  this  time, 
yes.  My  name" — she  choked  a  little,  and  yet  it 
evidently  gave  her  pleasure  to  offer  this  mark  of  confi- 
dence —  "is  Madame  Delphine  —  Delphine  Carraze." 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  25 

CHAPTER  VI. 

A   CRY  OF   DISTRESS. 

Pere  Jerome's  smile  and  exclamation,  as  some  days 
later  he  entered  bis  parlor  in  response  to  the  announce- 
ment of  a  visitor,  were  indicative  of  hearty  greeting 
rather  than  surprise. 

"  Madame  Delphine  !  " 

Yet  surprise  could  hardly  have  been  altogether  ab- 
sent, for  though  anotber  Sunday  had  not  yet  come 
around,  the  slim,  smallish  figure  sitting  in  a  corner, 
looking  very  much  alone,  and  clad  in  dark  attire, 
which  seemed  to  have  been  washed  a  trifle  too  often, 
was  Delphine  Carraze  on  her  second  visit.  And  this, 
he  was  confident,  was  over  and  above  an  attendance  in 
the  confessional,  where  he  was  sure  he  had  recognized 
her  voice. 

She  rose  bashfully  and  gave  her  hand,  then  looked 
to  the  floor,  and  began  a  faltering  speech,  with  a  swal- 
lowing motion  in  the  tbroat,  smiled  weakly  and  com- 
menced again,  speaking,  as  before,  in  a  gentle,  low 
note,  frequently  lifting  up  and  casting  down  her  eyes, 
while  shadows  of  anxiety  and  smiles  of  apology  chased 
each  other  rapidly  across  her  face.  She  was  trying  to 
ask  his  advice. 

"Sit  down,"  said  he;  and  when  they  had  taken 
seats  she  resumed,  with  downcast  eyes : 

' '  You  know,  —  probably  I  should  have  said  this  in 
the  confessional,  but  "  — 


26  OLD   CEEOLE  DAYS. 

' '  No  matter,  Madame  Delphine  ;  I  understand  ; 
you  did  not  want  an  oracle,  perhaps ;  you  want  a 
friend." 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  shining  with  tears,  and  dropped 
them  again. 

"I" —  she  ceased.  "I  have  done  a"  —  she 
dropped  her  head  and  shook  it  despondingly  —  "a 
cruel  thing."  The  tears  rolled  from  her  eyes  as  she 
turned  away  her  face. 

Pere  Jerome  remained  silent,  and  presently  she 
turned  again,  with  the  evident  intention  of  speaking  at 
length. 

"  It  began  nineteen  years  ago  —  by"  —  her  eyes, 
which  she  had  lifted,  fell  lower  than  ever,  her  brow 
and  neck  were  suffused  with  blushes,  and  she  mur- 
mured—  "I  fell  in  love." 

She  said  no  more,  and  by  and  by  Pere  Jerome  re- 
plied : 

"Well,  Madame  Delphine,  to  love  is  the  right  of 
every  soul.  I  believe  in  love.  If  your  love  was  pure 
and  lawful  I  am  sure  3'our  angel  guardian  smiled  upon 
you ;  and  if  it  was  not,  I  cannot  say  you  have  noth- 
ing to  answer  for,  and  yet  I  think  God  may  have  said : 
"She  is  a  quadroone  ;  all  the  rights  of  her  woman- 
hood trampled  in  the  mire,  sin  made  easy  to  her  — 
almost  compulsory,  —  charge  it  to  account  of  whom 
it  may  concern." 

"No,  no!"  said  Madame  Delphine,  looking  up 
quickly,  "some  of  it  might  fall  upon" —  Her  eyes 
fell,  and  she  commenced  biting  her  lips  and  nervously 
pinching  little  folds  in  her  skirt.     ' '  He  was  good  —  as 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  27 

good  as  the  law  would  lot  him  be  —  better,  indeed,  for 
he  left  me  property,  which  really  the  strict  law  does 
not  allow.  He  loved  our  little  daughter  very  much. 
He  wrote  to  his  mother  and  sisters,  owning  all  his 
error  and  asking  them  to  take  the  child  and  bring  her 
up.  I  sent  her  to  them  when  he  died,  which  was  soon 
after,  and  did  not  see  my  child  for  sixteen  years.  But 
we  wrote  to  each  other  all  the  time,  and  she  loved 
me.  And  then  —  at  last ' '  —  Madame  Delphine  ceased 
speaking,  but  went  on  diligently  with  her  agitated  fin- 
gers, turning  down  foolish  hems  lengthwise  of  her  lap. 

"At  last  your  mother-heart  conquered,"  said  P&re 
Jerome. 

She  nodded. 

"The  sisters  married,  the  mother  died;  I  saw  that 
even  where  she  was  she  did  not  escape  the  reproach 
of  her  birth  and  blood,  and  when  she  asked  me  to  let 
her  come" —  The  speaker's  brimming  eyes  rose  an 
instant.  "  I  know  it  was  wicked,  but  —  I  said, 
come." 

The  tears  dripped  through  her  hands  upon  her 
dress. 

"Was  it  she  who  was  with  you  last  Sunday?'" 

"Yes." 

' '  And  now  you  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  her  ?  ' ' 

"A7i!  c'est  ga  ouil  —  that  is  it." 

"Does  she  look  like  you,  Madame  Delphine?" 

"Oh,  thank  God,  no!  you  would  never  believe  she 
was  my  daughter ;  she  is  white  and  beautiful ! ' ' 

' '  You  thank  God  for  that  which  is  your  main  diffi- 
culty, Madame  Delphine." 


28  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

"Alas!  yes." 

Pere  Jerome  laid  his  palms  tightly  across  his  knees 
with  his  arms  bowed  out,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground,  pondering. 

"I  suppose  she  is  a  sweet,  good  daughter?"  said 
he,  glancing  at  Madame  Delphine,  without  changing 
his  attitude. 

Her  answer  was  to  raise  her  eyes  rapturously. 

"Which  gives  us  the  dilemma  in  its  fullest  force," 
said  the  priest,  speaking  as  if  to  the  floor.  ' '  She  has 
no  more  place  than  if  she  had  dropped  upon  a  strange 
planet."  He  suddenly  looked  up  with  a  brightness 
which  almost  as  quickly  passed  away,  and  then  he 
looked  down  again.  His  happy  thought  was  the  clois- 
ter ;  but  he  instantly  said  to  himself:  "They  cannot 
have  overlooked  that  choice,  except  intentionally  — 
which  they  have  a  right  to  do."  He  could  do  nothing 
but  shake  his  head. 

"And  suppose  you  should  suddenly  die,"  he  said; 
he  wanted  to  get  at  once  to  the  worst. 

The  woman  made  a  quick  gesture,  and  buried  her 
head  in  her  handkerchief,  with  the  stifled  cry : 

"  Oh,  Olive,  my  daughter  !  " 

"  Well,  Madame  Delphine,"  said  Pere  Jerome,  more 
buoyantly,  "one  thing  is  sure:  we  mast  find  a  way 
out  of  this  trouble." 

"  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed,  looking  heavenward,  "if  it 
might  be !  " 

"  But  it  must  be  !  "  said  the  priest. 

"But  how  shall  it  be?"  asked  the  desponding 
woman. 


MADAME  BELPHINE.  29 

"Ah!"  said  Pere  Jerome,  with  a  shrug,  "God 
knows." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  quadroone,  with  a  quick  sparkle  in 
her  gentle  eye  ;  "  and  I  know,  if  God  would  tell  any- 
body, He  would  tell  you  !  " 

The  priest  smiled  and  rose. 

"  Do  you  think  so?  Well,  leave  me  to  think  of  it. 
I  will  ask  Him." 

"  And  He  will  tell  you  !  "  she  replied.  "  And  He 
will  bless  you!"  She  rose  and  gave  her  hand.  As 
she  withdrew  it  she  smiled.  "  I  had  such  a  strange 
dream,"  she  said,  backing  toward  the  door. 

"Yes?" 

"Yes.  I  got  my  troubles  all  mixed  up  with  your 
sermon.  I  dreamed  I  made  that  pirate  the  guardian 
of  my  daughter." 

Pere  Jerome  smiled  also,  and  shrugged. 

"To  you,  Madame  Delphine,  as  you  are  placed, 
every  white  man  in  this  country,  on  land  or  on  water, 
is  a.  pirate,  and  of  all  pirates,  I  think  that  one  is, 
without  doubt,  the  best." 

"  Without  doubt,"  echoed  Madame  Delphine,  wea- 
rily, still  withdrawing  backward.  Pere  Jerome  stepped 
forward  and  opened  the  door. 

The  shadow  of  some  one  approaching  it  from  with- 
out fell  upon  the  threshold,  and  a  man  entered,  dressed 
in  dark  blue  cottonade,  lifting  from  his  head  a  fine 
Panama  hat,  and  from  a  broad,  smooth  brow,  fair 
where  the  hat  had  covered  it,  and  dark  below,  gently 
stroking  back  his  very  soft,  brown  locks.  Madame 
Delphine   slightly   started   aside,   while   Pere   Jerome 


30  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

reached  silently,  but  eagerly,  forward,  grasped  a  larger 
hand  than  his  own,  and  motioned  its  owner  to  a  seat. 
Madame  Delphine's  eyes  ventured  no  higher  than  to 
discover  that  the  shoes  of  the  visitor  were  of  white  duck. 

"Well,  Pore  Jerome,"  she  said,  in  a  hurried  under- 
tone, "  I  am  just  going  to  say  Hail  Marys  all  the  time 
till  you  find  that  out  for  me  !  ' ' 

"  Well,  I  hope  that  will  be  soon,  Madame  Carraze. 
Good-day,  Madame  Carraze." 

And  as  she  departed,  the  priest  turned  to  the  new- 
comer and  extended  both  hands,  saying,  in  the  same 
familiar  dialect  in  which  he  had  been  addressing  the 
quadroone : 

"  Well-a-day,  old  playmate  !    After  so  many  years  !  " 

They  sat  down  side  by  side,  like  husband  and  wife, 
the  priest  playing  with  the  other's  hand,  and  talked  of 
times  and  seasons  past,  often  mentioning  Evariste  and 
often  Jean. 

"Madame  Delphine  stopped  short  half-way  home  and 
returned  to  Pere  Jerome's.  His  entry  door  was  wide 
open  and  the  parlor  door  ajar.  She  passed  through 
the  one  and  with  downcast  eyes  was  standing  at  the 
other,  her  hand  lifted  to  knock,  when  the  door  was 
drawn  open  and  the  white  duck  shoes  passed  out. 
She  saw,  besides,  this  time  the  blue  cottonade  suit. 

"  Yes,"  the  voice  of  Pere  Jerome  was  saying,  as  his 
face  appeared  in  the  door  — ' '  Ah  !  Madame  ' '  — 

"I  lef  my  parasoZ,"  said  Madame  Delphine,  in 
English. 

There  was  this  quiet  evidence  of  a  defiant  spirit 
hidden  somewhere  down  under  her  general  timidity, 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  31 

that,  against  a  fierce  conventional  prohibition,  she 
wore  a  bonnet  instead  of  the  turban  of  her  caste,  and 
carried  a  parasol. 

Pere  Jerome  turned  and  brought  it. 

He  made  a  motion  in  the  direction  in  which  the  late 
visitor  had  disappeared. 

"  Madame  Delphine,  you  saw  dat  man?" 

"Not  his  face." 

"  You  couldn'  billieve  me  iv  I  tell  you  w'at  dat  man 
purpose  to  do  !  " 

"  Is  dad  so,  Pere  Jerome?  " 

"  He's  goin'  to  hopen  a  bank  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Madame  Delphine,  seeing  she  was  ex- 
pected to  be  astonished. 

Pere  Jerome  evidently  longed  to  tell  something  that 
was  best  kept  secret ;  he  repressed  the  impulse,  but  his 
heart  had  to  say  something.  He  threw  forward  one 
hand  and  looking  pleasantly  at  Madame  Delphine, 
with  his  lips  dropped  apart,  clenched  his  extended 
hand  and  thrusting  it  toward  the  ground,  said  in  a 
solemn  undertone : 

"  He  is  God's  own  banker,  Madame  Delphine." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MICHE    VIGNEVIELLE. 


Madame  Delphine  sold  one  of  the  corner  lots  of 
her  property.  She  had  almost  no  revenue,  and  now 
and  then  a  piece  had  to  go.     As  a  cod  sequence  of  the 


\ 


32  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

sale,  she  had  a  few  large  bank-notes  sewed  up  in  her 
petticoat,  and  one  day  —  maybe  a  fortnight  after  her 
tearful  interview  with  Pere  Jerome  —  she  found  it  ne- 
cessary to  get  one  of  these  changed  into  small  money. 
She  was  in  the  Rue  Toulouse,  looking  from  one  side  to 
the  other  for  a  bank  which  was  not  in  that  street  at  all, 
when  she  noticed  a  small  sign  hangiug  above  a  door, 
bearing  the  name  "  Vignevielle."  She  looked  in. 
Pere  Jerome  had  told  her  (when  she  had  gone  to  him 
to  ask  where  she  should  apply  for  change)  that  if  she 
could  only  wait  a  few  days,  there  would  be  a  new 
concern  opened  in  Toulouse  Street,  —  it  really  seemed 
as  if  Vignevielle  was  the  name,  if  she  could  judge ;  it 
looked  to  be,  and  it  was,  a  private  banker's,  —  "  U.  L. 
Vignevielle' s,"  according  to  a  larger  inscription  which 
met  her  eyes  as  she  ventured  in.  Behind  the  counter, 
exchanging  some  last  words  with  a  busy-mannered  man 
outside,  who,  in  withdrawing,  seemed  bent  on  running 
over  Madame  Delphine,  stood  the  man  in  blue  cotton- 
ade,  whom  she  had  met  in  Pere  Jerome's  doorway. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  she  saw  his  face,  its  strong, 
grave,  human  kindness  shining  softly  on  each  and 
every  bronzed  feature.  The  recognition  was  mutual. 
He  took  pains  to  speak  first,  saying,  in  a  re-assuring 
tone,  and  in  the  language  he  had  last  heard  her  use : 
"  'Ow  I  kin  serve  you,  Madame?  " 
"  Iv  you  pliz,  to  mague  dad  bill  change,  Mick6." 
She  pulled  from  her  pocket  a  wad  of  dark  cotton 
handkerchief,  from  which  she  began  to  untie  the  im- 
prisoned note.  Madame  Delphine  had  an  uncommon- 
ly  sweet  voice,  and  it  seemed  so  to  strike  Monsieur 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  33 

Vignevielle.  He  spoke  to  her  once  or  twice  more,  as 
he  waited  on  her,  each  time  in  EDglish,  as  though 
he  enjoyed  the  humble  melody  of  its  tone,  and  pres- 
ently, as  she  turned  to  go,  he  said  : 

"  Madame  Carraze  !  " 

She  started  a  little,  but  bethought  herself  instantly 
that  he  had  heard  her  name  in  Pere  Jerome's  parlor. 
The  good  father  might  even  have  said  a  few  words  about 
her  after  her  first  departure  ;  he  had  such  an  overflow- 
ing heart.  "  Madame  Carraze,"  said  Monsieur  Vigne- 
vielle, "  doze  kine  of  note  wad  you  'an'  me  juz  now  is 
bein'  contrefit.  You  muz  tek  kyah  from  doze  kine  of 
note.  You  see  "  —  He  drew  from  his  cash-drawer  a 
note  resembling  the  one  he  had  just  changed  for  her, 
and  proceeded  to  point  out  certain  tests  of  genuine- 
ness.    The  counterfeit,  he  said,  was  so  and  so. 

"Bud,"  she  exclaimed,  with  much  dismay,  "dad 
was  de  manner  of  my  bill!  Id  muz  be  —  led  me  see 
dad  bill  wad  I  give  you,  —  if  you  pliz,  Miche." 

Monsieur  Vigneville  turned  to  engage  in  conversation 
with  an  employe"  and  a  new  visitor,  and  gave  no  sign  of 
hearing  Madame  Delphine's  voice.  She  asked  a  second 
time,  with  like  result,  lingered  timidly,  and  as  he  turned 
to  give  his  attention  to  a  third  visitor,  reiterated ; 

"  Mich6  Vignevielle,  I  wizh  you  pliz  led  "  — 

"  Madame  Carraze,"  he  said,  turning  so  suddenly 
as  to  make  the  frightened  little  woman  start,  but  ex- 
tending his  palm  with  a  show  of  frankness,  and  assum- 
ing a  look  of  benignant  patience,  "  'ow  I  kin  fine  doze 
note  now,  mongs'  all  de  rez?  Iv  you  pliz  nod  to 
mague  me  doze  troub  ' . " 


34  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

The  dimmest  shadow  of  a  smile  seemed  only  to  give 
his  words  a  more  kindly  authoritative  import,  and  as  he 
turned  away  again  with  a  manner  suggestive  of  finality, 
Madame  Delphine  found  no  choice  but  to  depart.  But 
she  went  away  loving  the  ground  beneath  the  feet  of 
Monsieur  U.  L.  Vignevielle. 

"Oh,  Pere  Jerome!"  she  exclaimed  in  the  corrupt 
French  of  her  caste,  meeting  the  little  father  on  the 
street  a  few  days  later,  "  you  told  the  truth  that  day  in 
your  parlor.  Mo  conni  li  &  c't  lieure.  I  know  him 
now  ;  he  is  just  what  you  called  him." 

"Why  do  you  not  make  him  your  banker,  also, 
Madame  Delphine  ? ' ' 

"  I  have  done  so  this  very  day  !  "  she  replied,  with 
more  happiness  in  her  eyes  than  Pere  Jerome  had  ever 
before  seen  there. 

"Madame  Delphine,"  he  said,  his  own  eyes  spar- 
kling, "make  him  yom  daughter's  guardian  ;  for  myself, 
being  a  priest,  it  would  not  be  best ;  but  ask  him ;  I 
believe  he  will  not  refuse  you." 

Madame  Delphine' s  face  grew  still  brighter  as  he 
spoke. 

"  It  was  in  my  mind,"  she  said. 

Yet  to  the  timorous  Madame  Delphine  many  trifles 
became,  one  after  another,  an  impediment  to  the  making 
of  this  proposal,  and  many  weeks  elapsed  before  further 
delay  was  positively  without  excuse.  But  at  length, 
one  day  in  May,  1822,  in  a  small  private  office  behind 
Monsieur  Vignevielle's  banking-room, — he  sitting  be- 
side a  table,  and  she,  more  timid  and  demure  than 
ever,  having  just  taken  a  chair  by  the  door,  — she  said, 


MADAME  BELPHINE.  35 

trying,  with  a  little  bashful  laugh,  to  make  the  matter 
seem  unimportant,  and  yet  with  some  tremor  of  voice  : 

"  Miche"  Vignevielle,  I  bin  maguing  my  will."  (Hav- 
ing commenced  their  acquaintance  in  English,  they 
spoke  nothing  else.) 

"  'Tis  a  good  idy,"  responded  the  banker. 

"  I  kin  mague  you  de  troub'  to  kib  dad  will  fo'  me, 
Miche  Vignevielle? " 

"Yez." 

She  looked  up  with  grateful  re-assurance ;  but  her 
eyes  dropped  again  as  she  said : 

"  Miche"  Vignevielle  "  —  Here  she  choked,  and  be- 
gan her  peculiar  motion  of  laying  folds  in  the  skirt 
of  her  dress,  with  trembling  fingers.  She  lifted  her 
eyes,  and  as  they  met  the  look  of  deep  and  placid  kind- 
ness that  was  in  his  face,  some  courage  returned,  and 
she  said : 

"Miche." 

"  Wad  you  wand?  "  asked  he,  gently. 

"If  it  arrive  to  me  to  die  ' '  — 

"Yez?" 

Her  words  were  scarcely  audible  : 

"  I  wand  you  teg  kyah  my  luT  girl." 

"  You  'ave  one  lhT  gal,  Madame  Carraze?" 

She  nodded  with  her  face  down. 

"  An'  you  godd  some  mo'  chillen?  " 

"No." 

"  I  nevva  know  dad,  Madame  Carraze.  She's  a  lill' 
small  gal  ?  ' ' 

Mothers  forget  their  daughters'  stature.  Madame 
Delphine  said : 


36  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"  Yez." 

For  a  few  moments  neither  spoke,  and  then  Monsieur 
Vignevielle  said : 

"I  will  do  dad." 

"Lag  she  been  you'  h-own?"  asked  the  mother, 
suffering  from  her  own  boldness. 

"  She's  a  good  MT  chile,  eh?  " 

"  Miche,  she  's  a  lill'  hangel !  "  exclaimed  Madame 
Delphine,  with  a  look  of  distress. 

"  Yez  ;  I  teg  kyah  'v  'er,  lag  my  h-own.  I  mague 
you  dad  promise." 

"But" —  There  was  something  still  in  the  way, 
Madame  Delphine  seemed  to  think. 

The  banker  waited  in  silence. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  want  to  see  my  lill'  girl?  " 

He  smiled ;  for  she  looked  at  him  as  if  she  would 
implore  him  to  decline. 

"  Oh,  I  tek  you'  word  fo'  hall  dad,  Madame  Carraze. 
It  mague  no  differend  wad  she  loog  lag ;  I  don'  wan' 
see  'er." 

Madame  Delphine's  parting  smile  —  she  went  very 
shortly  —  was  gratitude  beyond  speech. 

Monsieur  Vignevielle  returned  to  the  seat  he  had  left, 
and  resumed  a  newspaper,  —  the  Louisiana  Gazette  in 
all  probability,  —  which  he  had  laid  down  upon  Mad- 
ame Delphine's  entrance.  His  eyes  fell  upon  a  para- 
graph which  had  previously  escaped  his  notice.  There 
they  rested.  Either  he  read  it  over  and  over  unweary- 
ingly,  or  he  was  lost  in  thought.  Jean  Thompson 
entered. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Thompson,  in  a  suppressed  tone, 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  37 

bending  a  little  across  the  table,  and  laying  one  palm 
upon  a  package  of  papers  which  lay  in  the  other,  "  it 
is  completed.  You  could  retire  from  your  business 
any  day  inside  of  six  hours  without  loss  to  anybody." 
(Both  here  and  elsewhere,  let  it  be  understood  that 
where  good  English  is  given  the  words  were  spoken  in 
good  French.) 

Monsieur  Vignevielle  raised  his  eyes  and  extended 
the  newspaper  to  the  attorney,  who  received  it  and 
read  the  paragraph.  Its  substance  was  that  a  certain 
vessel  of  the  navy  had  returned  from  a  cruise  in  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico  and  Straits  of  Florida,  where  she  had 
done  valuable  service  against  the  pirates  —  having,  for 
instance,  destroyed  in  one  fortnight  in  January  last 
twelve  pirate  vessels  afloat,  two  on  the  stocks,  and 
three  establishments  ashore. 

"United  States  brig  Porpoise"  repeated  Jean 
Thompson.     "Do  you  know  her?" 

"  We  are  acquainted,"  said  Monsieur  Vignevielle. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SHE. 


A  quiet  footstep,  a  grave  new  presence  on  financial 
sidewalks,  a  neat  garb  slightly  out  of  date,  a  gently 
strong  and  kindly  pensive  face,  a  silent  bow,  a  new 
sign  in  the  Rue  Toulouse,  a  lone  figure  with  a  cane, 
walking  in  meditation  in  the  evening  light  under  the 


38  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

willows  of  Canal  Marigny,  a  long-darkened  window 
re-lighted  in  the  Rue  Conti  —  these  were  all ;  a  fall  of 
dew  would  scarce  have  been  more  quiet  than  was  the 
return  of  Ursin  Lemaitre-Vignevielle  to  the  precincts 
of  his  birth  and  early  life. 

But  we  hardly  give  the  event  its  right  name.  It  was 
Capitaine  Lemaitre  who  had  disappeared  ;  it  was  Mon- 
sieur Vignevielle  who  had  come  back.  The  pleasures, 
the  haunts,  the  companions,  that  had  once  held  out 
their  charms  to  the  impetuous  youth,  offered  no  entice- 
ments to  Madame  Delphine's  banker.  There  is  this 
to  be  said  even  for  the  pride  his  grandfather  had 
taught  him,  that  it  had  always  held  him  above  low 
indulgences  ;  and  though  he  had  dallied  with  kings, 
queens,  and  knaves  through  all  the  mazes  of  Faro, 
Rondeau,  and  Craps,  he  had  done  it  loftily ;  but  now 
he  maintained  a  peaceful  estrangement  from  all.  Eva- 
riste  and  Jean,  themselves,  found  him  only  by  seeking. 

"  It  is  the  right  way,"  he  said  to  Pere  Jerome,  the 
day  we  saw  him  there.  "  Ursin  Lemaitre  is  dead.  I 
have  buried  him.    He  left  a  will.     I  am  his  executor." 

"He  is  crazy,"  said  his  lawyer  brother-in-law,  im- 
patiently. 

"On  the  contr-y,"  replied  the  little  priest,  "  'e  'as 
come  ad  hisse'f." 

Evariste  spoke. 

"  Look  at  his  face,  Jean.  Men  with  that  kind  of 
face  are  the  last  to  go  crazy." 

"  You  have  not  proved  that,"  replied  Jean,  with  an 
attorney's  obstinacy.  "You  should  have  heard  him 
talk  the  other  day  about  that  newspaper  paragraph. 


MADAME  BELPHINE.  39 

'I  have  taken  Ursin  Lemaitre's  head;  I  have  it  with 
me ;  I  claim  the  reward,  but  I  desire  to  commute  it  to 
citizenship.'     He  is  crazy." 

Of  course  Jean  Thompson  did  not  believe  what  he 
said ;  but  he  said  it,  and,  in  his  vexation,  repeated  it, 
on  the  banquettes  and  at  the  clubs  ;  and  presently  it 
took  the  shape  of  a  sly  rumor,  that  the  returned  rover 
was  a  trifle  snarled  in  his  top-hamper. 

This  whisper  was  helped  into  circulation  by  many 
trivial  eccentricities  of  manner,  and  by  the  unaccount- 
able oddness  of  some  of  his  transactions  in  business. 

' '  My  dear  sir !  "  cried  his  astounded  lawyer,  one 
day,  "  you  are  not  running  a  charitable  institution  !  " 

"How  do  you  know?"  said  Monsieur  Vignevielle. 
There  the  conversation  ceased. 

' '  Why  do  you  not  found  hospitals  and  asylums  at 
once,"  asked  the  attorney,  at  another  time,  with  a 
vexed  laugh,  "  and  get  the  credit  of  it?  " 

"And  make  the  end  worse  than  the  beginning," 
said  the  banker,  with  a  gentle  smile,  turning  away  to  a 
desk  of  books. 

"  Bah  !  "  muttered  Jean  Thompson. 

Monsieur  Vignevielle  betrayed  one  very  bad  symp- 
tom. Wherever  he  went  he  seemed  looking  for  some- 
body. It  may  have  been  perceptible  only  to  those  who 
were  sufficiently  interested  in  him  to  study  his  move- 
ments ;  but  those  who  saw  it  once  saw  it  always.  He 
never  passed  an  open  door  or  gate  but  he  glanced  in  ; 
and  often,  where  it  stood  but  slightly  ajar,  you  might 
see  him  give  it  a  gentle  push  with  his  hand  or  cane. 
It  was  very  singular. 


40  OLD    CREOLE  DAYS. 

He  walked  much  alone  after  dark.  The  guichinan- 
goes  (garroters,  we  might  say),  at  those  times  the 
city's  particular  terror  by  night,  never  crossed  his 
path.  He  was  one  of  those  men  for  whom  danger 
appears  to  stand  aside. 

One  beautiful  summer  night,  when  all  nature  seemed 
hushed  in  ecstasy,  the  last  blush  gone  that  told  of  the 
sun's  parting,  Monsieur  Vignevielle,  in  the  course 
of  one  of  those  contemplative,  uncompanioned  walks 
which  it  was  his  habit  to  take,  came  slowly  along  the 
more  open  portion  of  the  Hue  Roy  ale,  with  a  step 
which  was  soft  without  intention,  occasionally  touching 
the  end  of  his  stout  cane  gently  to  the  ground  and 
looking  upward  among  his  old  acquaintances,  the  stars. 

It  was  one  of  those  southern  nights  under  whose 
spell  all  the  sterner  energies  of  the  mind  cloak  them- 
selves and  lie  down  in  bivouac,  and  the  fancy  and  the 
imagination,  that  cannot  sleep,  slip  their  fetters  and 
escape,  beckoned  away  from  behind  every  flowering 
bush  and  sweet-smelling  tree,  and  every  stretch  of 
lonely,  half -lighted  walk,  by  the  genius  of  poetry. 
The  air  stirred  softly  now  and  then,  and  was  still 
again,  as  if  the  breezes  lifted  their  expectant  pinions 
and  lowered  them  once  more,  awaiting  the  rising  of 
the  moon  in  a  silence  which  fell  upon  the  fields,  the 
roads,  the  gardens,  the  walls,  and  the  suburban  and 
half-suburban  streets,  like  a  pause  in  worship.  And 
anon  she  rose. 

Monsieur  Vignevielle 's  steps  were  bent  toward  the 
more  central  part  of  the  town,  and  he  was  presently 
passing  along  a  high,  close,  board-fence,  on  the  right- 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  41 

hand  side  of  the  way,  when,  just  within  this  enclosure, 
and  almost  overhead,  in  the  dark  boughs  of  a  large 
orange-tree,  a  mocking-bird  began  the  first  low  flute- 
notes  of  his  all-night  song.  It  may  have  been  only 
the  nearness  of  the  songster  that  attracted  the  passer's 
attention,  but  he  paused  and  looked  up. 

And  then  he  remarked  something  more, — that  the 
air  where  he  had  stopped  was  filled  with  the  over- 
powering sweetness  of  the  night-jasmine.  He  looked 
around  ;  it  could  only  be  inside  the  fence.  There  was 
a  gate  just  there.  Would  he  push  it,  as  his  wont  was? 
The  grass  was  growing  about  it  in  a  thick  turf,  as 
though  the  entrance  had  not  been  used  for  years.  An 
iron  staple  clasped  the  cross-bar,  and  was  driven  deep 
into  the  gate-post.  But  now  an  eye  that  had  been  in 
the  blacksmithing  business  —  an  eye  which  had  later 
received  high  training  as  an  eye  for  fastenings  —  fell 
upon  that  staple,  and  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  wood 
had  shrunk  from  it,  and  it  had  sprung  from  its  hold, 
though  without  falling  out.  The  strange  habit  asserted 
itself ;  he  laid  his  large  hand  upon  the  cross-bar ;  the 
turf  at  the  base  yielded,  and  the  tall  gate  was  drawn 
partly  open. 

At  that  moment,  as  at  the  moment  whenever  he 
drew  or  pushed  a  door  or  gate,  or  looked  in  at  a  win- 
dow, he  was  thinking  of  one,  the  image  of  whose  face 
and  form  had  never  left  his  inner  vision  since  the  dav 
it  had  met  him  in  his  life's  path  and  turned  him  face 
about  from  the  way  of  destruction. 

The  bird  ceased.  The  cause  of  the  interruption, 
standing  within   the  opening,  saw  before  him,  much 


42  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

obscured  by  its  own  numerous  shadows,  a  broad,  ill- 
kept,  many-flowered  garden,  among  whose  untrimmed 
rose-trees  and  tangled  vines,  and  often,  also,  in  its  old 
walks  of  pounded  shell,  the  coco-grass  and  crab-grass 
had  spread  riotously,  and  sturdy  weeds  stood  up  in 
bloom.  He  stepped  in  and  drew  the  gate  to  after  him. 
There,  very  near  by,  was  the  clump  of  jasmine,  whose 
ravishing  odor  had  tempted  him.  It  stood  just  beyond 
a  brightly  moonlit  path,  which  turned  from  him  in  a 
curve  toward  the  residence,  a  little  distance  to  the 
right,  and  escaped  the  view  at  a  point  where  it  seemed 
more  than  likely  a  door  of  the  house  might  open  upon 
it.  "While  he  still  looked,  there  fell  upon  his  ear,  from 
around  that  curve,  a  light  footstep  on  the  broken  shells 
—  one  only,  and  then  all  was  for  a  moment  still  again. 
Had  he  mistaken  ?  No.  The  same  soft  click  was  re- 
peated nearer  by,  a  pale  glimpse  of  robes  came  through 
the  tangle,  and  then,  plainly  to  view,  appeared  an  out- 
line —  a  presence  —  a  form  —  a  spirit  —  a  girl ! 

From  throat  to  instep  she  was  as  white  as  Cynthia. 
Something  above  the  medium  height,  slender,  lithe,  her 
abundant  hair  rolling  in  dark,  rich  waves  back  from 
her  brows  and  down  from  her  crown,  and  falling  in 
two  heavy  plaits  beyond  her  round,  broadly  girt  waist 
and  full  to  her  knees,  a  few  escaping  locks  eddying 
lightly  on  her  graceful  neck  and  her  temples, — her 
arms,  half  hid  in  a  snowy  mist  of  sleeve,  let  down  to 
guide  her  spotless  skirts  free  from  the  dew}r  touch  of 
the  grass,  —  straight  down  the  path  she  came  ! 

Will  she  stop  ?  Will  she  turn  aside  ?  Will  she  espy 
the  dark  form  in  the  deep  shade  of  the  orange,  and, 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  43 

with  one  piercing  scream,  wheel  and  vanish?  She 
draws  near.  She  approaches  the  jasmine  ;  she  raises 
her  arms,  the  sleeves  falling  like  a  vapor  down  to  the 
shoulders  ;  rises  upon  tiptoe,  and  plucks  a  spray.  O 
Memory  !  Can  it  be?  Can  it  be?  Is  this  his  quest,  or 
is  it  lunacy?  The  ground  seems  to  Monsieur  Vigne- 
vielle  the  unsteady  sea,  and  he  to  stand  once  more  on 
a  deck.  And  she?  As  she  is  now,  if  she  but  turn 
toward  the  orange,  the  whole  glory  of  the  moon  will 
shine  upon  her  face.  His  heart  stands  still ;  he  is 
waiting  for  her  to  do  that.  She  reaches  up  again  ;  this 
time  a  bunch  for  her  mother.  That  neck  and  throat ! 
Now  she  fastens  a  spray  in  her  hair.  The  mocking- 
bird cannot  withhold  ;  he  breaks  into  song  —  she  turns 
—  she  turns  her  face — it  is  she,  it  is  she!  Madame 
Delphine's  daughter  is  the  girl  he  met  on  the  ship. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

OLIVE. 

She  was  just  passing  seventeen  —  that  beautiful 
year  when  the  heart  of  the  maiden  still  beats  quickly 
with  the  surprise  of  her  new  dominion,  while  with  gen- 
tle dignity  her  brow  accepts  the  holy  coronation  of 
womanhood.  The  forehead  and  temples  beneath  her 
loosely  bound  hair  were  fair  without  paleness,  and 
meek  without  languor.  She  had  the  soft,  lack-lustre 
beauty  of  the  South ;  no  ruddiness  of  coral,  no  waxen 


44  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

white,  no  pink  of  shell ;  no  heavenly  blue  in  the 
glance ;  but  a  face  that  seemed,  in  all  its  other 
beauties,  only  a  tender  accompaniment  for  the  large, 
brown,  melting  eyes,  where  the  openness  of  child- 
nature  mingled  dreamily  with  the  sweet  mysteries  of 
maiden  thought.  We  say  no  color  of  shell  on  face  or 
throat ;  but  this  was  no  deficiency,  that  which  took  its 
place  being  the  warm,  transparent  tint  of  sculptured 
ivory. 

This  side  doorway  which  led  from  Madame  Del- 
phine's  house  into  her  garden  was  over-arched  partly 
by  an  old  remnant  of  vine-covered  lattice,  and  partly 
by  a  crape-myrtle,  against  whose  small,  polished  trunk 
leaned  a  rustic  seat.  Here  Madame  Delphine  and 
Olive  loved  to  sit  when  the  twilights  were  balmy  or  the 
moon  was  bright. 

"  Cherie,"  said  Madame  Delphine  on  one  of  those 
evenings,  "  why  do  you  dream  so  much?  " 

She  spoke  in  the  patois  most  natural  to  her,  and 
which  her  daughter  had  easily  learned. 

The  girl  turned  her  face  to  her  mother,  and  smiled, 
then  dropped  her  glance  to  the  hands  in  her  own  lap, 
which  were  listlessty  handling  the  end  of  a  ribbon. 
The  mother  looked  at  her  with  fond  solicitude.  Her 
dress  was  white  again  ;  this  was  but  one  night  since 
that  in  which  Monsieur  Vignevielle  had  seen  her  at  the 
bush  of  night-jasmine.  He  had  not  been  discovered, 
but  had  gone  away,  shutting  the  gate,  and  leaving  it 
as  he  had  found  it. 

Her  head  was  uncovered.  Its  plaited  masses,  quite 
black   in  the  moonlight,  hung  down  and  coiled  upon 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  45 

the  bench,  by  her  side.  Her  chaste  drapery  was  of 
that  revived  classic  order  which  the  world  of  fashion 
was  again  laying  aside  to  re-assume  the  mediaeval 
bondage  of  the  staylace  ;  for  New  Orleans  was  behind 
the  fashionable  world,  and  Madame  Delphine  and  her 
daughter  were  behind  New  Orleans.  A  delicate  scarf, 
pale  blue,  of  lightly  netted  worsted,  fell  from  either 
shoulder  down  beside  her  hands.  The  look  that  was 
bent  upon  her  changed  perforce  to  one  of  gentle  ad- 
miration.    She  seemed  the  goddess  of  the  garden. 

Olive  glanced  up.  Madame  Delphine  was  not  pre- 
pared for  the  movement,  and  on  that  account  repeated 
her  question : 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about?  " 

The  dreamer  took  the  hand  that  was  laid  upon  hers 
between  her  own  palms,  bowed  her  head,  and  gave 
them  a  soft  kiss. 

The  mother  submitted.  Wherefore,  in  the  silence 
which  followed,  a  daughter's  conscience  felt  the  bur- 
den of  having  withheld  an  answer,  and  Olive  presently 
said,  as  the  pair  sat  looking  up  into  the  sky : 

"I  was  thinking  of  Pere  Jerome's  sermon." 

Madame  Delphine  had  feared  so.  Olive  had  lived  on 
it  ever  since  the  clay  it  was  preached.  The  poor  mother 
was  almost  ready  to  repent  having  ever  afforded  her 
the  opportunity  of  hearing  it.  Meat  and  drink  had 
become  of  secondary  value  to  her  daughter ;  she  fed 
upon  the  sermon. 

Olive  felt  her  mother's  thought  and  knew  that  her 
mother  knew  her  own ;  but  now  that  she  had  con- 
fessed, she  would  ask  a  question : 


46  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

"Do  you  think,  maman,  that  Pere  Jerome  knows 
it  was  I  who  gave  that  missal  ? ' ' 

"  No,"  said  Madame  Delphine,  "  I  am  sure  he  does 
not." 

Another  question  came  more  timidly : 

"  Do  —  do  you  think  he  knows  him?  " 

"Yes,  I  do.     He  said  in  his  sermon  he  did." 

Both  remained  for  a  long  time  very  still,  watching 
the  moon  gliding  in  and  through  among  the  small  dark- 
and-white  clouds.     At  last  the  daughter  spoke  again. 

' '  I  wish  I  was  Pere  —  I  wish  I  was  as  good  as  Pere 
Jerome." 

"My  child,"  said  Madame  Delphine,  her  tone  be- 
traying a  painful  summoning  of  strength  to  say  what 
she  had  lacked  the  courage  to  utter,  —  "  my  child,  I 
pray  the  good  God  you  will  not  let  your  heart  go  after 
one  whom  you  may  never  see  in  this  world !  ' ' 

The  maiden  turned  her  glance,  and  their  eyes  met. 
She  cast  her  arms  about  her  mother's  neck,  laid  her 
cheek  upon  it  for  a  moment,  and  then,  feeling  the  ma- 
ternal tear,  lifted  her  lips,  and,  kissing  her,  said : 

"I  will  not!     I  will  not!" 

But  the  voice  was  one,  not  of  willing  consent,  but 
of  desperate  resolution. 

"It  would  be  useless,  anyhow,"  said  the  mother, 
laying  her  arm  around  her  daughter's  waist. 

Olive  repeated  the  kiss,  prolonging  it  passionately. 

"  I  have  nobody  but  you,"  murmured  the  girl ;  "  I 
am  a  poor  quadroone  ! ' ' 

She  threw  back  her  plaited  hair  for  a  third  embrace, 
when  a  sound  in  the  shrubbery  startled  them. 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  47 

"  Qui  ci  ga  ?  "  called  Madame  Delphine,  in  a  fright- 
ened voice,  as  the  two  stood  up,  holding  to  each 
other. 

No  answer. 

"It  was  only  the  dropping  of  a  twig,"  she  whis- 
pered, after  a  long  holding  of  the  breath.  But  they 
went  into  the  house  and  barred  it  everywhere. 

It  was  no  longer  pleasant  to  sit  up.  They  retired, 
and  in  course  of  time,  but  not  soon,  they  fell  asleep, 
holding  each  other  very  tight,  and  fearing,  even  in 
their  dreams,  to  hear  another  twig  fall. 


CHAPTER  X. 

BIRDS. 

Monsieur  Vigneville  looked  in  at  no  more  doors 
or  windows  ;  but  if  the  disappearance  of  this  symptom 
was  a  favorable  sign,  others  came  to  notice  which 
were  especially  bad,  —  for  instance,  wakefulness.  At 
well-nigh  any  hour  of  the  night,  the  city  guard,  which 
itself  dared  not  patrol  singly,  would  meet  him  on  his 
slow,  unmolested,  sky-gazing  walk. 

"Seems  to  enjoy  it,"  said  Jean  Thompson;  "the 
worst  sort  of  evidence.  If  he  showed  distress  of 
mind,  it  would  not  be  so  bad ;  but  his  calmness,  — 
ugly  feature." 

The  attorney  had  held  his  ground  so  long  that  he 
began  really  to  believe  it  was  tenable. 


48  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

By  day,  it  is  true,  Monsieur  Vignevielle  was  at  bis 
post  in  his  quiet  "  bank."  Yet  bere,  day  by  day,  be 
was  tbe  source  of  more  and  more  vivid  astonishment 
to  those  who  held  preconceived  notions  of  a  banker's 
calling.  As  a  banker,  at  least,  he  was  certainly  out 
of  balance  ;  while  as  a  promenader,  it  seemed  to  those 
who  watched  him  that  his  ruling  idea  had  now  veered 
about,  and  that  of  late  he  was  ever  on  the  quiet  alert, 
not  to  find,  but  to  evade,  somebody. 

"Olive,  my  child,"  whispered  Madame  Delphine 
one  morning,  as  the  pair  were  kneeling  side  by  side  on 
the  tiled  floor  of  the  church,  "  yonder  is  Miche"  Vigne- 
vielle !  If  you  will  only  look  at  once  —  he  is  just 
passing  a  little  in  —  Ah,  much  too  slow  again  ;  he 
stepped  out  by  the  side  door." 

The  mother  thought  it  a  strange  providence  that 
Monsieur  Vignevielle  should  always  be  disappearing 
whenever  Olive  was  with  her. 

One  early  dawn,  Madame  Delphine,  with  a  small 
empty  basket  on  her  arm,  stepped  out  upon  the  ban- 
quette in  front  of  her  house,  shut  and  fastened  the 
door  very  softly,  and  stole  out  in  the  direction  whence 
you  could  faintly  catch,  in  the  stillness  of  the  day- 
break, the  songs  of  the  Gascon  butchers  and  the 
pounding  of  their  meat-axes  on  the  stalls  of  the  dis- 
tant market-house.  She  was  going  to  see  if  she  could 
find  some  birds  for  Olive, — the  child's  appetite  was 
so  poor ;  and,  as  she  was  out,  she  would  drop  an  early 
prayer  at  the  cathedral.     Faith  and  works. 

"One  must  venture  something,  sometimes,  in  the 
cause  of  religion,"  thought  she,  as  she  started  timor- 


MADAME  BELPHINE.  49 

ously  on  her  way.  But  she  had  not  gone  a  dozen  steps 
before  she  repented  her  temerity.  There  was  some 
one  behind  her. 

There  should  not  be  any  thing  terrible  in  a  footstep 
merely  because  it  is  masculine ;  but  Madame  Del- 
phine's  miud  was  not  prepared  to  consider  that.  A 
terrible  secret  was  haunting  her.  Yesterday  morning 
she  had  found  a  shoe-track  in  the  garden.  She  had 
not  disclosed  the  discovery  to  Olive,  but  she  had  hardly 
closed  her  eyes  the  whole  night. 

The  step  behind  her  now  might  be  the  fall  of  that 
very  shoe.  She  quickened  her  pace,  but  did  not  leave 
the  sound  behind.  She  hurried  forward  almost  at  a 
run ;  yet  it  was  still  there  —  no  farther,  no  nearer. 
Two  frights  were  upon  her  at  once  —  one  for  herself, 
another  for  Olive,  left  alone  in  the  house ;  but  she  had 
but  the  one  prayer —  "  God  protect  my  child  !  "  After 
a  fearful  time  she  reached  a  place  of  safety,  the  cathe- 
dral. There,  panting,  she  knelt  long  enough  to  know 
the  pursuit  was,  at  least,  suspended,  and  then  arose, 
hoping  and  praying  all  the  saints  that  she  might  find 
the  way  clear  for  her  return  in  all  haste  to  Olive. 

She  approached  a  different  door  from  that  by  which 
she  had  entered,  her  eyes  in  all  directions  and  her 
heart  in  her  throat. 

"  Madame  Carraze." 

She  started  wildly  and  almost  screamed,  though  the 
voice  was  soft  and  mild.  Monsieur  Vignevielle  came 
slowly  forward  from  the  shade  of  the  wall.  They 
met  beside  a  bench,  upon  which  she  dropped  her 
basket. 


50  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"  Ah,  Miche'  Vignevielle,  I  thang  de  good  God  to 
mid  you  ! ' ' 

"  Is  dad  so,  Madame  Carraze?     Fo'  w'}T  dad  is?  " 

"  A  man  was  chase  me  all  dad  way  since  my  'ouse  !  " 

"Yes,  Madame,  I  sawed  him." 

"  You  sawed  'ini  ?     Oo  it  was  ?  " 

"  'Twas  only  one  man  wad  is  a  foolizh.  De  people 
say  he's  crezzie.  Mais,  he  don'  goin'  to  meg  you  no 
'arm." 

"  But  I  was  scare'  fo'  my  lill'  girl." 

"  Noboddie  don'  goin'  trouble  3*ou'  lill'  gal,  Madame 
Carraze." 

Madame  Delphine  looked  up  into  the  speaker's 
strangely  kind  and  patient  e37es,  and  drew  sweet  re- 
assurance from  them. 

"Madame,"  said  Monsieur  Vignevielle,  "wad  pud 
you  hout  so  hearly  dis  morning?  " 

She  told  him  her  errand.  She  asked  if  he  thought 
she  would  find  any  thing. 

"  Yez,"  he  said,  "  it  was  possible  —  a  few  lill'  becas- 
sines-de-mer,  on  somezin'  ligue.  But  fo'  w'y  you  lill' 
gal  lose  doze  hapetide?  " 

"  Ah,  MicheY '  —  Madame  Delphine  might  have  tried 
a  thousand  times  again  without  ever  succeeding  half 
so  well  in  lifting  the  curtain  upon  the  whole,  sweet, 
tender,  old,  old-fashioned  truth,  —  "Ah,  Mich6,  she 
wone  tell  me  !  " 

"Bud,  anny'ow,  Madame,  wad  jtou  thing?" 

"  Miche,"  she  replied,  looking  up  again  with  a  tear 
standing  in  either  eye,  and  then  looking  down  once 
more  as  she  began  to  speak,  "  I  thing  —  I  thing  she's 
lonesome." 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  51 

"You  thing?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Ah!  Madame  Carraze,"  he  said,  partly  extending 
his  hand,  "you  see?  'Tis  impossible  to  mague  you' 
owze  shud  so  tighd  to  priv-en  dad.  Madame,  I  med 
one  mizteg." 

"Ah,  non,  Miche" !  " 

"  Yez.  There  har  nod  one  poss'bil'ty  fo'  me  to  be 
dad  guardian  of  you'  daughteh  !  " 

Madame  Delphine  started  with  surprise  and  alarm. 

"  There  is  ondly  one  wad  can  be,"  he  continued. 

"But  oo,  Miche?" 

"God." 

"Ah,  Miche-  Vignevielle  " —  She  looked  at  him 
appealingly. 

"  I  don'  goin'  to  dizzerd  you,  Madame  Carraze," 
he  said. 

She  lifted  her  eyes.  They  filled.  She  shook  her 
head,  a  tear  fell,  she  bit  her  lip,  smiled,  and  suddenly 
dropped  her  face  into  both  hands,  sat  down  upon  the 
bench  and  wept  until  she  shook. 

"  You  dunno  wad  I  mean,  Madame  Carraze?  " 

She  did  not  know. 

"I  mean  dad  guardian  of  you'  daughteh  godd  to 
fine  'er  now  one  'uzban'  ;  an'  noboddie  are  hable  to 
do  dad  egceb  de  good  God  'imsev.  But,  Madame, 
I  tell  you  wad  I  do." 

She  rose  up.     He  continued : 

"Go  h-open  you'  owze;  I  fin'  you'  daughteh  dad 
uzban' . ' ' 

Madame  Delphine  was  a  helpless,  timid  thing ;  but 


52  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

her  eyes  showed  she  was  about  to  resent  this  offer. 
Monsieur  Vignevielle  put  forth  his  hand  —  it  touched 
her  shoulder  —  and  said,  kindly  still,  and  without 
eagerness  : 

"One  w'ite  man,  Madame:  'tis  prattycabble.  I 
know  'tis  prattycabble.  One  w'ite  jantleman,  Madame. 
You  can  truz  me.  I  goin'  fedge  'im.  H-ondly  you 
go  h-open  you'  owze." 

Madame  Delphine  looked  down,  twining  her  hand- 
kerchief among  her  fingers. 

He  repeated  his  proposition. 

"  You  will  come  firz  by  }7ou'se'f  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Iv  you  wand." 

She  lifted  up  once  more  her  eye  of  faith.  That  was 
her  answer. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  gently,  "I  wan'  sen'  some  bird 
ad  you'  101'  gal." 

And  they  went  away,  Madame  Delphine's  spirit 
grown  so  exaltedly  bold  that  she  said  as  they  went, 
though  a  violent  blush  followed  her  words  : 

"  Miche-  Vignevielle,  I  thing  Pere  Jerome  mighd  be 
ab'e  to  tell  you  someboddie." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

FACE   TO   FACE. 

Madame  Delphine  found  her  house  neither  burned 
nor  rifled. 

uAh!  ma  piti  sanspopa!     Ah!  my  little  fatherless 


MADAME  BELPHINE.  53 

oue ! "  Her  faded  bonnet  fell  back  between  her 
shoulders,  hanging  on  by  the  strings,  and  her  dropped 
basket,  with  its  "few  HIT  becassines-de-mer"  dangling 
from  the  handle,  rolled  out  its  okra  and  soup-joint 
upon  the  floor.     ' '  Ma  piti !  kiss  !  —  kiss  !  —  kiss  ! ' ' 

"  But  is  it  good  news  you  have,  or  bad?  "  cried  the 
girl,  a  fourth  or  fifth  time. 

' '  Dieu  sait,  ma  cere;  mo  pas  conne  I "  —  God  knows, 
my  darling  ;  I  cannot  tell ! 

The  mother  dropped  into  a  chair,  covered  her  face 
with  her  apron,  and  burst  into  tears,  then  looked  up 
with  an  effort  to  smile,  and  wept  afresh. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing?  "  asked  the  daughter, 
in  a  long-drawn,  fondling  tone.  She  leaned  forward 
and  unfastened  her  mother's  bonnet-strings.  "Why 
do  you  cry  ?  ' ' 

"For  nothing  it  all,  my  darling;  for  nothing  —  I 
am  such  a  fool." 

The  girl's  eyes  filled.  The  mother  looked  up  into 
her  face  and  said : 

"No,  it  is  nothing,  nothing,  only  that"  —  turning 
her  head  from  side  to  side  with  a  slow,  emotional 
emphasis,  "  Miche  Vignevielle  is  the  best  —  best  man 
on  the  good  Lord's  earth  !  " 

Olive  drew  a  chair  close  to  her  mother,  sat  down 
and  took  the  little  yellow  hands  into  her  own  white 
lap,  and  looked  tenderly  into  her  eyes.  Madame  Del- 
phine  felt  herself  yielding ;  she  must  make  a  show  of 
telling  something : 

"  He  sent  you  those  birds  !  " 

The   girl   drew  her  face  back  a  little.     The  little 


54  OLD    CREOLE  DAYS. 

woman  turned  away,  trying  in  vain  to  hide  her  tearful 
smile,  and  they  laughed  together,  Olive  mingling  a 
daughter's  fond  kiss  with  her  laughter. 

"There  is  something  else,"  she  said,  "and  you 
shall  tell  me." 

"Yes,"  replied  Madame  Delphine,  "only  let  me 
get  composed." 

But  she  did  not  get  so.  Later  in  the  morning  she 
came  to  Olive  with  the  timid  yet  startling  proposal 
that  they  would  do  what  they  could  to  brighten  up  the 
long-neglected  front  room.  Olive  was  mystified  and 
troubled,  but  consented,  and  thereupon  the  mother's 
spirits  rose. 

The  work  began,  and  presently  ensued  all  the  thump- 
ing, the  trundling,  the  lifting  and  letting  down,  the 
raising  and  swallowing  of  dust,  and  the  smells  of  tur- 
pentine, brass,  pumice  and  woollen  rags  that  go  to 
characterize  a  housekeeper's  emeute ;  and  still,  as  the 
work  progressed,  Madame  Delphine's  heart  grew  light, 
and  her  little  black  eyes  sparkled. 

"  We  like  a  clean  parlor,  my  daughter,  even  though 
no  one  is  ever  coming  to  see  us,  eh?"  she  said,  as 
entering  the  apartment  she  at  last  sat  down,  late  in 
the  afternoon.     She  had  put  on  her  best  attire. 

Olive  was  not  there  to  reply.  The  mother  called 
but  got  no  answer.  She  rose  with  an  uneasy  heart, 
and  met  her  a  few  steps  beyond  the  door  that  opened 
into  the  garden,  in  a  path  which  came  up  from  an  old 
latticed  bower.  Olive  was  approaching  slowly,  her 
face  pale  and  wild.  There  was  an  agony  of  hostile 
dismay  in  the  look,  and  the  trembling  and  appealing 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  55 

tone  with  which,  taking  the  frightened  mother's  cheeks 
between  her  palms,  she  said  : 

'■'■Ah!  ma  m&re,  qui  vini  'ci  ce  soir?" — Who  is 
coming  here  this  evening? 

"  Why,  my  dear  child,  I  was  just  saying,  we  like  a 
clean  "  — 

But  the  daughter  was  desperate  : 

"  Oh,  tell  me,  my  mother,  who  is  coming?  " 

"  My  darling,  it  is  our  blessed  friend,  Mich6  Vigne- 
vielle!" 

"  To  see  me?  "  cried  the  girl. 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  my  mother,  what  have  you  done?  " 

"  Why,  Olive,  my  child,"  exclaimed  the  little  mother, 
bursting  into  tears,  "  do  you  forget  it  is  Mich6  Vigne- 
vielle  who  has  promised  to  protect  you  when  I  die  ? ' ' 

The  daughter  had  turned  away,  and  entered  the 
door ;  but  she  faced  around  again,  and  extending  her 
arms  toward  her  mother,  cried  : 

' '  How  can  —  he  is  a  white  man  —  I  am  a  poor ' ' — 

"Ah!  c7i6rie,"  replied  Madame  Delphine,  seizing 
the  outstretched  hands,  "  it  is  there  —  it  is  there  that 
he  shows  himself  the  best  man  alive !  He  sees  that 
difficulty  ;  he  proposes  to  meet  it ;  he  says  he  will  find 
you  a  suitor  ! ' ' 

Olive  freed  her  hands  violently,  motioned  her  mother 
back,  and  stood  proudly  drawn  up,  flashing  an  indig- 
nation too  great  for  speech  ;  but  the  next  moment  she 
had  uttered  a  cry,  and  was  sobbing  on  the  floor. 

The  mother  knelt  beside  her  and  threw  an  arm  about 
her  shoulders. 


56  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"  Oh,  my  sweet  daughter,  you  must  not  cry !  I  did 
not  want  to  tell  you  at  all !  I  did  not  want  to  tell 
you !  It  isn't  fair  for  j^ou  to  cry  so  hard.  Mich6 
Vignevielle  says  you  shall  have  the  one  you  wish,  or 
none  at  all,  Olive,  or  none  at  all." 

"  None  at  all !  none  at  all !     None,  none,  none  !  " 

"No,  no,  Olive,"  said  the  mother,  "none  at  all. 
He  brings  none  with  him  to-night,  and  shall  bring  none 
with  him  hereafter." 

Olive  rose  suddenly,  silently  declined  her  mother's 
aid,  and  went  alone  to  their  chamber  in  the  half-story. 

Madame  Delphine  wandered  drearily  from  door  to 
window,  from  window  to  door,  and  presently  into  the 
newly-furnished  front  room  which  now  seemed  dismal 
beyond  degree.  There  was  a  great  Argand  lamp  in 
one  corner.  How  she  had  labored  that  day  to  prepare 
it  for  evening  illumination  !  A  little  beyond  it,  on  the 
wall,  hung  a  crucifix.  She  knelt  under  it,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  it,  and  thus  silently  remained  until  its 
outline  was  indistinguishable  in  the  deepening  shadows 
of  evening. 

She  arose.  A  few  minutes  later,  as  she  was  trying 
to  light  the  lamp,  an  approaching  step  on  the  sidewalk 
seemed  to  pause.  Her  heart  stood  still.  She  softly 
laid  the  phosphorus-box  out  of  her  hands.  A  shoe 
grated  softly  on  the  stone  step,  and  Madame  Delphine, 
her  heart  beating  in  great  thuds,  without  waiting  for  a 
knock,  opened  the  door,  bowed  low,  and  exclaimed  in 
a  soft  perturbed  voice  : 

"Miche  Visfnevielle !  " 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  57 

He  entered,  hat  in  hand,  and  with  that  almost  noise- 
less tread  which  we  have  noticed.  She  gave  him  a 
chair  and  closed  the  door ;  then  hastened,  with  words 
of  apology,  back  to  her  task  of  lighting  the  lamp. 
But  her  hands  paused  iu  their  work  again,  —  Olive's 
step  was  on  the  stairs ;  then  it  came  off  the  stairs  ; 
then  it  was  in  the  next  room,  and  then  there  was  the 
whisper  of  soft  robes,  a  breath  of  gentle  perfume,  and 
a  snowy  figure  in  the  door.  She  was  dressed  for  the 
evening. 

"Maman?" 

Madame  Delphine  was  struggling  desperately  with 
the  lamp,  and  at  that  moment  it  responded  with  a  tiny 
bead  of  light. 

"  I  am  here,  my  daughter." 

She  hastened  to  the  door,  and  Olive,  all  unaware  of 
a  third  presence,  lifted  her  white  arms,  laid  them  about 
her  mother's  neck,  and,  ignoring  her  effort  to  speak, 
wrested  a  fervent  kiss  from  her  lips.  The  crystal  of 
the  lamp  sent  out  a  faint  gleam  ;  it  grew  ;  it  spread  on 
every  side  ;  the  ceiling,  the  walls  lighted  up  ;  the  cruci- 
fix, the  furniture  of  the  room  came  back  into  shape. 

"Maman!"  cried  Olive,  with  a  tremor  of  conster- 
nation. 

"  It  is  Miche  Vignevielle,  my  daughter  "  — 

The  gloom  melted  swiftly  away  before  the  eyes  of 
the  startled  maiden,  a  dark  form  stood  out  against  the 
farther  wall,  and  the  light,  expanding  to  the  full,  shone 
clearly  upon  the  unmoving  figure  and  quiet  face  of 
Capitaine  Lemaitre. 


58  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

CHAPTER    XII. 

THE    MOTHER    BIRD. 

One  afternoon,  some  three  weeks  after  Capitaine 
Lemaitre  bad  called  on  Madame  Delphine,  the  priest 
started  to  make  a  pastoral  call  and  had  hardly  left  the 
gate  of  his  cottage,  when  a  person,  overtaking  him, 
plucked  his  gown : 

"  Pere  Jerome  "  — 

He  turned. 

The  face  that  met  his  was  so  changed  with  excite- 
ment and  distress  that  for  an  instant  he  did  not  rec- 
ognize it. 

"  Why,  Madame  Delphine  "  — 

"Oh,  Pere  Jerome!  I  wan'  see  you  so  bad,  so 
bad!  Mo  oule  dit  quig'ose, — I  godd  some'  to  tell 
you." 

The  two  languages  might  be  more  successful  than 
one,  she  seemed  to  think. 

"We  had  better  go  back  to  my  parlor,"  said  the 
priest,  in  their  native  tongue. 

They  returned. 

Madame  Delphine's  very  step  was  altered, — nerv- 
ous and  inelastic.  She  swung  one  arm  as  she  walked, 
and  brandished  a  turkey-tail  fan. 

"I  was  glad,  yass,  to  kedge  you,"  she  said,  as 
they  mounted  the  front,  outdoor  stair ;  following  her 
speech  with  a  slight,  unmusical  laugh,  and  fanning 
herself  with  unconscious  fury. 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  59 

"  Fe  chaud,"  she  remarked  again,  taking  the  chair 
he  offered  and  continuing  to  ply  the  fan. 

Pere  Jerome  laid  his  hat  upon  a  chest  of  drawers, 
sat  down  opposite  her,  and  said,  as  he  wiped  his  kindly 
face : 

"  Well,  Madame  Carraze?  " 

Gentle  as  the  tone  was,  she  started,  ceased  fanning, 
lowered  the  fan  to  her  knee,  and  commenced  smooth- 
ing its  feathers. 

"Pere  Jerome" —  She  gnawed  her  lip  and  shook 
her  head. 

"Well?" 

She  burst  into  tears. 

The  priest  rose  and  loosed  the  curtain  of  one  of  the 
windows.  He  did  it  slowly  —  as  slowly  as  he  could, 
and,  as  he  came  back,  she  lifted  her  face  with  sudden 
energy,  and  exclaimed  :    . 

"Oh,  Pere  Jerome,  de  law  is  brogue!  de  law  is 
brogue  !     I  brogue  it !     'Twas  me  !     'Twas  me!" 

The  tears  gushed  out  again,  but  she  shut  her  lips 
very  tight,  and  dumbly  turned  away  her  face.  Pere 
Jerome  waited  a  little  before  replying ;  then  he  said, 
very  gently : 

"I  suppose  dad  muss  'ave  been  by  accyden',  Ma- 
dame Delphine?  " 

The  little  father  felt  a  wish  —  one  which  he  often 
had  when  weeping  women  were  before  him  —  that  he 
were  an  angel  instead  of  a  man,  long  enough  to  press 
the  tearful  cheek  upon  his  breast,  and  assure  the 
weeper  God  would  not  let  the  lawyers  and  judges  hurt 
her.  He  allowed  a  few  moments  more  to  pass,  and 
then  asked : 


60  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"  N'est-ce-pas,  Madame  Delphine?  Daz  ze  way, 
ain't  it?  " 

"No,  Pere  Jerome,  no.  My  daughter  —  oh,  Pere 
Jerome,  I  bethroath  my  luT  girl  —  to  a  w'ite  man!  " 
And  immediately  Madame  Delphine  commenced  sav- 
agely drawing  a  thread  in  the  fabric  of  her  skirt  with 
one  trembling  hand,  while  she  drove  the  fan  with  the 
other.     "  Dey  goin'  git  marry." 

On  the  priest's  face  came  a  look  of  pained  surprise. 
He  slowly  said : 

"  Is  dad  possib',  Madame  Delphine?  " 

"Yass,"  she  replied,  at  first  without  lifting  her 
eyes  ;  and  then  again,  "  Yass,"  looking  full  upon  him 
through  her  tears,  "  yaas,  'tis  tru'." 

He  rose  and  walked  once  across  the  room,  returned, 
and  said,  in  the  Creole  dialect : 

"  Is  he  a  good  man  —  without  doubt  ?  ' ' 

"  De  bez  in  God's  world!"  replied  Madame  Del- 
phine, with  a  rapturous  smile. 

"My  poor,  dear  friend,"  said  the  priest,  "I  am 
afraid  you  are  being  deceived  by  somebod}*." 

There  was  the  pride  of  an  unswerving  faith  in  the 
triumphant  tone  and  smile  with  which  she  replied, 
raising  and  slowly  shaking  her  head : 

"Ah-h,  no-o-o,  Miche  !  Ah-h,  no,  no!  Not  by 
Ursin  Lemaitre-Vignevielle  ! ' ' 

Pere  Jerome  was  confounded.  He  turned  again, 
and,  with  his  hands  at  his  back  and  his  ej^es  cast 
down,  slowly  paced  the  floor. 

"  He  is  a  good  man,"  he  said,  by  and  by,  as  if  he 
thought  aloud.    At  length  he  halted  before  the  woman. 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  61 

' '  Madame  Delphine  ' '  — 

The  distressed  glance  with  which  she  had  been  fol- 
lowing his  steps  was  lifted  to  his  eyes. 

"  Suppose  dad  should  be  true  w'at  doze  peop'  say 
'boutUrsin." 

"Qui  ci  ga  ?  What  is  that?  "  asked  the  quadroone, 
stopping  her  fan. 

"  Some  peop'  say  Ursin  is  crezzie." 

"  Ah,  Pere  Jerome  !  "  She  leaped  to  her  feet  as  if 
he  had  smitten  her,  and  putting  his  words  away  with 
an  outstretched  arm  and  wide-open  palm,  suddenly 
lifted  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven,  and  cried:  "I  wizh 
to  God  —  I  wizh  to  God  —  de  whole  worl'  was  crezzie 
dad  same  way  !  "  She  sank,  trembling,  into  her  chair. 
"  Oh,  no,  no,"  she  continued,  shaking  her  head,  "  'tis 
not  Miche-  Vignevielle  w'at's  crezzie."  Her  eyes 
lighted  with  sudden  fierceness.  "  'Tis  dad  law !  Dad 
laiv  is  crezzie  !     Dad  law  is  a  fool !  " 

A  priest  of  less  heart-wisdom  might  hcve  replied 
that  the  law  is  —  the  law ;  but  Pere ,  Jerome  saw  that 
Madame  Delphine  was  expecting  this  very  response. 
Wherefore  he  said,  with  gentleness : 

"Madame  Delphine,  a  priest  is  not  a  bailiff,  but  a 
physician.     How  can  I  help  you  ? ' ' 

A  grateful  light  shone  a  moment  in  her  eyes,  yet 
there  remained  a  piteous  hostility  in  the  tone  in  which 
she  demanded : 

"  Mais, pou'quoi  ye  fe  cette  mechanique  let?"  — What 
business  had  they  to  make  that  contraption  ? 

His  answer  was  a  shrug  with  his  palms  extended 
and  a  short,  disclamatory  "Ah."  He  started  to  re- 
sume his  walk,  but  turned  to  her  again  and  said : 


62  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"Why  did  they  make  that  law?  "Well,  they  made 
it  to  keep  the  two  races  separate." 

Madame  Delphine  startled  the  speaker  with  a  loud, 
harsh,  angry  laugh.  Fire  came  from  her  eyes  and  her 
lip  curled  with  scorn. 

"Then  they  made  a  lie,  Pere  Jerome!  Separate! 
No-o-o  !  They  do  not  want  to  keep  us  separated  ;  no, 
no!  But  they  do  want  to  keep  us  despised!  "  She 
laid  her  hand  on  her  heart,  and  frowned  upward  with 
physical  pain.  "But,  very  well !  from  which  race  do 
they  want  to  keep  my  daughter  separate  ?  She  is  seven 
parts  white  !  The  law  did  not  stop  her  from  being 
that ;  and  now,  when  she  wants  to  be  a  white  man's 
good  and  honest  wife,  shall  that  law  stop  her?  Oh, 
no  !  "  She  rose  up.  "  No  ;  I  will  tell  you  what  that 
law  is  made  for.     It  is  made  to — punish  —  my  —  child 

—  for  —  not  —  choosing  —  her  —  father  !  Pere  Jerome 
— my  God,  what  a  law  !  "  She  dropped  back  into  her 
seat.  The  tears  came  in  a  flood,  which  she  made  no 
attempt  to  restrain. 

"No,"  she  began  again  —  and  here  she  broke  into 
English  —  "  fo'  me  I  don'  kyare ;  but,  Pere  Jerome, 

—  'tis  fo'  dat  I  came  to  tell  you,  — cley  shall  not  pun- 
izh  my  daughter !  "  She  was  on  her  feet  again,  smit- 
ing her  heaving  bosom  with  the  fan.  "She  shall 
marrie  oo  she  want !  ' ' 

P6re  Jerome  had  heard  her  out,  not  interrupting  by 
so  much  as  a  motion  of  the  hand.  Now  his  decision 
was  made,  and  he  touched  her  softly  with  the  ends  of 
his  fingers. 

"Madame  Delphine,  I  want  you  to  go  at  'ome. 
Go  at  'ome." 


MADAME  BELPHINE.  63 

"  Wad  you  goin'  mague?  "  she  asked. 

"Nottin'.  But  go  at  'ome.  Kip  quite;  don'  put 
you'se'f  sig.  I  goin'  see  Ursin.  We  trah  to  figs  dat 
law  fo'  you." 

"You  kin  figs  dad!"  she  cried,  with  a  gleam  of 

joy. 

"  We  goin'  to  try,  Madame  Delphine.     Adieu  !  " 

He  offered  his  hand.  She  seized  and  kissed  it 
thrice,  covering  it  with  tears,  at  the  same  time  lifting 
up  her  eyes  to  his  and  murmuring  : 

"  De  bez  man  God  evva  mague  !  " 

At  the  door  she  turned  to  offer  a  more  conventional 
good-by ;  but  he  was  following  her  out,  bareheaded. 
At  the  gate  they  paused  an  instant,  and  then  parted 
with  a  simple  adieu,  she  going  home  and  he  returning 
for  his  hat,  and  starting  again  upon  his  interrupted 
business. 

Before  he  came  back  to  his  own  house,  he  stopped 
at  the  lodgings  of  Monsieur  Vignevielle,  but  did  not 
find  him  in. 

"Indeed,"  the  servant  at  the  door  said,  "he  said 
he  might  not  return  for  some  da}"S  or  weeks." 

So  Pere  Jerome,  much  wondering,  made  a  second 
detour  toward  the  residence  of  one  of  Monsieur  Vigne- 
vielle's  employes. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  clerk,  "his  instructions  are  to  hold 
the  business,  as  far  as  practicable,  in  suspense,  during 
his  absence.  Every  thing  is  in  another  name."  And 
then  he  whispered : 

"Officers  of  the  Government  looking  for  him.     In- 


64  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

formation  got  from  some  of  the  prisoners  taken  months 
ago  by  the  United  States  brig  Porpoise.  But"  —  a 
still  softer  whisper  —  "have  no  fear;  they  will  never 
find  him  :  Jean  Thompson  and  Evariste  Varrillat  have 
hid  him  away  too  well  for  that." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

TRIBULATION. 


The  Saturday  following  was  a  very  beautiful  day. 
In  the  morning  a  light  fall  of  rain  had  passed  across 
the  town,  and  all  the  afternoon  you  could  see  signs, 
here  and  there  upon  the  horizon,  of  other  showers. 
The  ground  was  dry  again,  while  the  breeze  was  cool 
and  sweet,  smelling  of  wet  foliage  and  bringing  sun- 
shine and  shade  in  frequent  and  very  pleasing  alterna- 
tion. 

There  was  a  walk  in  Pere  Jerome's  little  garden,  of 
which  we  have  not  spoken,  off  on  the  right  side  of  the 
cottage,  with  his  chamber  window  at  one  end,  a  few 
old  and  twisted,  but  blossom-laden,  crape-myrtles  on 
either  hand,  now  and  then  a  rose  of  some  unpretending 
variety  and  some  bunches  of  rue,  and  at  the  other  end 
a  shrine,  in  whose  blue  niche  stood  a  small  figure  of 
Mary,  with  folded  hands  and  uplifted  eyes.  No  other 
window  looked  down  upon  the  spot,  and  its  seclusion 
was  often  a  great  comfort  to  Pere  Jerome. 

Up  and  down  this  path,  but  a  few  steps  in  its  entire 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  65 

length,  the  priest  was  walking,  taking  the  air  for  a  few 
moments  after  a  prolonged  sitting  in  the  confessional. 
Penitents  had  been  numerous  this  afternoon.  He  was 
thinking  of  Ursin.  The  officers  of  the  Government 
had  not  found  him,  nor  had  Pere  Jerome  seen  him ; 
yet  he  believed  they  had,  in  a  certain  indirect  way, 
devised  a  simple  project  by  which  they  could  at  any 
time  "figs  dad  law,"  providing  only  that  these  Gov- 
ernment officials  would  give  over  their  search ;  for, 
though  he  had  not  seen  the  fugitive,  Madame  Delphine 
had  seen  him,  and  had  been  the  vehicle  of.  communica- 
tion between  them.  There  was  an  orange-tree,  where 
a  mocking-bird  was  wont  to  sing  and  a  girl  in  white  to 
walk,  that  the  detectives  wot  not  of.  The  law  was  to 
be  "figs"  hy  the  departure  of  the  three  frequenters 
of  the  jasmine-scented  garden  in  one  ship  to  France, 
where  the  law  offered  no  obstacles. 

It  seemed  moderately  certain  to  those  in  search  of 
Monsieur  Vignevielle  (and  it  was  true)  that  Jean  and 
Evariste  were  his  harborers  ;  but  for  all  that  the  hunt, 
even  for  clews,  was  vain.  The  little  banking  estab- 
lishment had  not  been  disturbed.  Jean  Thompson 
had  told  the  searchers  certain  facts  about  it,  and  about 
its  gentle  proprietor  as  well,  that  persuaded  them  to 
make  no  move  against  the  concern,  if  the  same  rela- 
tions did  not  even  induce  a  relaxation  of  their  efforts 
for  his  personal  discovery. 

Pere  Jerome  was  walking  to  and  fro,  with  his  hands 
behind  him,  pondering  these  matters.  He  had  paused 
a  moment  at  the  end  of  the  walk  farthest  from  his  win- 
dow, and  was  looking  around  upon  the  sky,  when,  turn- 


66  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

ing,  he  beheld  a  closely  veiled  female  figure  standing 
at  the  other  end,  and  knew  instantly  that  it  was  Olive. 

She  came  forward  quickly  and  with  evident  eagerness. 

"I  canie  to  confession,"  she  said,  breathing  hur- 
riedly, the  excitement  in  her  eyes  shining  through  her 
veil,  "  but  I  find  I  am  too  late." 

' '  There  is  no  too  late  or  too  early  for  that ;  I  am 
always  ready,"  said  the  priest.  "But  how  is  your 
mother?  " 

"Ah!"  — 

Her  voice  failed. 

"More  trouble?" 

"Ah,  sir,  I  have  made  trouble.  Oh,  Pere  Jerome, 
I  am  bringing  so  much  trouble  upon  my  poor  mother  !  " 

Pere  Jerome  moved  slowly  toward  the  house,  with 
his  eyes  cast  down,  the  veiled  girl  at  his  side. 

"It  is  not  your  fault,"  he  presently  said.  And 
after  another  pause  :   "I  thought  it  was  all  arranged. ' ' 

He  looked  up  and  could  see,  even  through  the  veil, 
her  crimson  blush. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  in  a  low,  despairing  voice, 
dropping  her  face. 

"  What  is  the  difficulty?"  asked  the  priest,  stopping 
in  the  angle  of  the  path,  where  it  turned  toward  the 
front  of  the  house. 

She  averted  her  face,  and  began  picking  the  thin 
scales  of  bark  from  a  crape-myrtle. 

"  Madame  Thompson  and  her  husband  were  at  our 
house  this  morning.  He  had  told  Monsieur  Thompson 
all  about  it.  They  were  very  kind  to  me  at  first,  but 
they  tried  "  —     She  was  weeping. 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  67 

"  What  did  they  try  to  do?  "  asked  the  priest. 

"  They  tried  to  make  me  believe  he  is  insane." 

She  succeeded  in  passing  her  handkerchief  up  under 
her  veil. 

"  And  I  suppose  then  your  poor  mother  grew  angry, 
eh?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  they  became  much  more  so,  and  said  if 
we  did  not  write,  or  send  a  writing,  to  /am,  within 
twenty-four  hours,  breaking  the  "  — 

"  Engagement,"  said  Pere  Jerome. 

"  They  would  give  him  up  to  the  Government.  Oh, 
Pere  Jerome,  what  shall  I  do?  It  is  killing  my 
mother ! ' ' 

She  bowed  her  head  and  sobbed. 

' '  Where  is  your  mother  now  ?  ' ' 

"She  has  gone  to  see  Monsieur  Jean  Thompson. 
She  says  she  has  a  plan  that  will  match  them  all.  I 
do  not  know  what  it  is.  I  begged  her  not  to  go  ;  bvit 
oh,  sir,  she  is  crazy,  — and  I  am  no  better." 

"My  poor  child,"  said  Pere  Jerome,  "what  you 
seem  to  want  is  not  absolution,  but  relief  from  perse- 
cution." 

"Oh,  father,  I  have  committed  mortal  sin,  —  I  am 
guilty  of  pride  and  anger." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  the  priest,  starting  toward  his 
front  gate,  "  we  will  put  off  your  confession.  Let  it 
go  until  to-morrow  morning ;  you  will  find  me  in  my 
box  just  before  mass  ;  I  will  hear  you  then.  My  child, 
I  know  that  in  your  heart,  now,  you  begrudge  the  time 
it  would  take  ;  and  that  is  right.  There  are  moments 
when  we  are  not  in  place  even  on  penitential  knees. 


68  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

It  is  so  with  you  now.  We  must  find  your  mother. 
Go  you  at  once  to  your  house  ;  if  she  is  there,  comfort 
her  as  best  you  can,  and  Jceep  her  in,  if  possible,  until 
I  come.  If  she  is  not  there,  stay ;  leave  me  to  find 
her ;  one  of  you,  at  least,  must  be  where  I  can  get 
word  to  you  promptly.  God  comfort  and  uphold  you. 
I  hope  you  may  find  her  at  home  ;  tell  her,  for  me,  not 
to  fear," — he  lifted  the  gate-latch,  —  "that  she  and 
her  daughter  are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows ; 
that  God's  priest  sends  her  that  word  from  Him.  Tell 
her  to  fix  her  trust  in  the  great  Husband  of  the  Church, 
and  she  shall  yet  see  her  child  receiving  the  grace- 
giving  sacrament  of  matrimony.  Go  ;  I  shall,  in  a 
few  minutes,  be  on  my  way  to  Jean  Thompson's,  and 
shall  find  her,  either  there  or  wherever  she  is.  Go ; 
they  shall  not  oppress  you.     Adieu  !  " 

A  moment  or  two  later  he  was  in  the  street  himself. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

BY   AN    OATH. 


Pere  Jerome,  pausing  on  a  street-corner  in  the  last 
hour  of  sunlight,  had  wiped  his  brow  and  taken  his 
cane  down  from  under  his  arm  to  start  again,  when 
somebody,  coming  noiselessly  from  he  knew  not  where, 
asked,  so  suddenly  as  to  startle  him  : 

' '  MicM,  commin  y6  pelU  la  rie  id  ?  —  how  do  they 
call  this  street  here  ?  ' ' 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  69 

It  was  by  the  bonnet  and  dress,  disordered  though 
they  were,  rather  than  by  the  haggard  face  which 
looked  distractedly  around,  that  he  recognized  the 
woman  to  whom  he  replied  in  her  own  patois  : 

"It  is  the  Rue  Burgundy.  Where  are  you  going, 
Madame  Delphine  ?  ' ' 

She  almost  leaped  from  the  ground. 

"  Oh,  Pere  Jerome  !  mo  pas  conne,  —  I  dunno.  You 
know  w'ere's  clad  'ouse  of  Miche  Jean  Tomkin?  Mo 
courri  'ci,  mo  courri  la,  —  mo  pas  capabe  li  trouve.  I  go 
(run)  here  —  there  —  I  cannot  find  it,"  she  gesticulated. 

"  I  am  going  there  myself,"  said  he  ;  "  but  why  do 
you  want  to  see  Jean  Thompson,  Madame  Delphine?  " 

"I  'blige'  to  see  'im !  "  she  replied,  jerking  herself 
half  around  away,  one  foot  planted  forward  with  an 
air  of  excited  p re-occupation  ;  "  I  godd  some'  to  tell 
'im  wad  I  'blige'  to  tell  'im  !  " 

"  Madame  Delphine  "  — 

"Oh!  Pere  Jerome,  fo'  de  love  of  de  good  God, 
show  me  dad  way  to  de  'ouse  of  Jean  Tomkin  !  " 

Her  distressed  smile  implored  pardon  for  her  rude- 
ness. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  tell  him  ?  "  asked  the  priest. 

"Oh,  Pere  Jerome,"  — in  the  Creole  patois  again, 
—  "I  am  going  to  put  an  end  to  all  this  trouble  —  only 
I  pray  you  do  not  ask  me  about  it  now  ;  every  minute 
is  precious  !  " 

He  could  not  withstand  her  look  of  entreaty. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  and  they  went. 

Jean  Thompson  and  Doctor  Varrillat  li  red  opposite 


70  OLD    CREOLE  BAYS. 

each  other  on  the  Bayou  road,  a  little  way  beyond  the 
town  limits  as  then  prescribed.  Each  had  his  large, 
white-columned,  four-sided  house  among  the  magnolias, 
—  his  huge  live-oak  overshadowing  either  corner  of  the 
darkly  shaded  garden,  his  broad,  brick  walk  leading 
down  to  the  tall,  brick-pillared  gate,  his  square  of 
bright,  red  pavement  on  the  turf-covered  sidewalk,  and 
his  railed  platform  spanning  the  draining-ditch,  with  a 
pair  of  green  benches,  one  on  each  edge,  facing  each 
other  crosswise  of  the  gutter.  There,  any  sunset  hour, 
you  were  sure  to  find  the  householder  sitting  beside  his 
cool-robed  matron,  two  or  three  slave  nurses  in  white 
turbans  standing  at  hand,  and  an  excited  throng  of 
fair  children,  nearly  all  of  a  size. 

Sometimes,  at  a  beckon  or  call,  the  parents  on  one 
side  of  the  way  would  join  those  on  the  other,  and  the 
children  and  nurses  of  both  families  would  be  given  the 
liberty  of  the  opposite  platform  and  an  ice-cream  fund  ! 
Generally  the  parents  chose  the  Thompson  platform, 
its  outlook  being  more  toward  the  sunset. 

Such  happened  to  be  the  arrangement  this  afternoon. 
The  two  husbands  sat  on  one  bench  and  their  wives  on 
the  other,  both  pairs  very  quiet,  waiting  respectfully 
for  the  day  to  die,  and  exchanging  only  occasional 
comments  on  matters  of  light  moment  as  they  passed 
through  the  memory.  During  one  term  of  silence 
Madame  Varrillat,  a  pale,  thin-faced,  but  cheerful- 
looking  lady,  touched  Madame  Thompson,  a  person  of 
two  and  a  half  times  her  weight,  on  her  extensive  and 
snowy  bare  elbow,  directing  her  attention  obliquely  up 
and  across  the  road. 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  71 

About  a  hundred  yards  distant,  in  the  direction  of 
the  river,  was  a  long,  pleasantly  shaded  green  strip 
of  turf,  destined  in  time  for  a  sidewalk.  It  had  a  deep 
ditch  on  the  nearer  side,  and  a  fence  of  rough  cypress 
palisades  on  the  farther,  and  these  were  overhung,  on 
the  one  hand,  by  a  row  of  bitter-orange-tiees  inside  the 
enclosure,  and,  on  the  other,  by  a  line  of  slanting 
china- trees  along  the  outer  edge  of  the  ditch.  Down 
this  cool  avenue  two  figures  were  approaching  side  by 
side.  They  had  first  attracted  Madame  Varrillat's 
notice  by  the  bright  play  of  sunbeams  which,  as  they 
walked,  fell  upon  them  in  soft,  golden  flashes  through 
the  chinks  between  the  palisades. 

Madame  Thompson  elevated  a  pair  of  glasses  which 
were  no  detraction  from  her  very  good  looks,  and  re- 
marked, with  the  serenity  of  a  reconnoitring  general : 

"  Pere  Jerome  et  cette  milatraise." 

All  e3'es  were  bent  toward  them. 

"  She  walks  like  a  man,"  said  Madame  Varrillat,  in 
the  language  with  which  the  conversation  had  opened. 

"  No,"  said  the  physician,  "  like  a  woman  in  a  state 
of  high  nervous  excitement." 

Jean  Thompson  kept  his  eyes  on  the  woman,  and  said  : 

"  She  must  not  forget  to  walk  like  a  woman  in  the 
State  of  Louisiana," — as  near  as  the  pun  can  be 
translated.  The  company  laughed.  Jean  Thompson 
looked  at  his  wife,  whose  applause  he  prized,  and  she 
answered  by  an  asseverative  toss  of  the  head,  leaning 
back  and  contriving,  with  some  effort,  to  get  her  arms 
folded.  Her  laugh  was  musical  and  low,  but  enough 
to  make  the  folded  arms  shake  gently  up  and  down. 


72  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"  Pere  Jerome  is  talking  to  her,"  said  one.  The 
priest  was  at  that  moment  endeavoring,  in  the  interest 
of  peace,  to  say  a  good  word  for  the  four  people  who 
sat  watching  his  approach.     It  was  in  the  old  strain : 

"  Blame  them  one  part,  Madame  Delphine,  and  their 
fathers,  mothers,  brothers,  and  fellow-citizens  the  other 
ninety-nine." 

But  to  every  thing  she  had  the  one  amiable  answer 
which  Pere  Jerome  ignored  : 

"  I  am  going  to  arrange  it  to  satisfy  everybody,  all 
together.     Tout  tifait." 

"They  are  coming  here,"  said  Madame  Varrillat, 
half  articulately. 

"Well,  of  course,"  murmured  another;  and  the 
four  rose  up,  smiling  courteously,  the  doctor  and  attor- 
ney advancing  and  shaking  hands  with  the  priest. 

No  —  Pere  Jerome  thanked  them  —  he  could  not  sit 
down. 

"This,  I  believe  you  know,  Jean,  is  Madame  Del- 
phine ' '  — 

The  quadroone  courtesied. 

"  A  friend  of  mine,"  he  added,  smiling  kindly  upon 
her,  and  turning,  with  something  imperative  in  his  eye, 
to  the  group.  "  She  says  she  has  an  important  private 
matter  to  communicate." 

"  To  me?  "  asked  Jean  Thompson. 

"  To  all  of  you;  so  I  will —  Good-evening."  He 
responded  nothing  to  the  expressions  of  regret,  but 
turned  to  Madame  Delphine.  She  murmured  some- 
thing. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  certainly."     He  addressed  the  company  : 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  73 

' '  She  wishes  me  to  speak  for  her  veracity  ;  it  is  unim- 
peachable. Well,  good-evening."  He  shook  hands 
and  departed. 

The  four  resumed  their  seats,  and  turned  their  eyes 
upon  the  standing  figure. 

"Have  you  something  to  say  to  us?"  asked  Jean 
Thompson,  frowning  at  her  law-defying  bonnet. 

"Oui,"  replied  the  woman,  shrinking  to  one  side, 
and  laying  hold  of  one  of  the  benches,  "mo  ouU  di' 
tou'  g'ose" — I  want  to  tell  every  thing.  "  Miche 
Vignevielle  la  plis  bon  homme  di  moune ' '  —  the  best 
man  in  the  world;  "  mo  pas  capabe  life  tracas"  — 
I  cannot  give  him  trouble.  "Mo  pas  capabe,  non; 
m'ole  di'  tous  g'ose."  She  attempted  to  fan  herself, 
her  face  turned  away  from  the  attorney,  and  her 
eyes  rested  on  the  ground. 

"Take  a  seat,"  said  Doctor  Varrillat,  with  some 
suddenness,  starting  from  his  place  and  gently  guiding 
her  sinking  form  into  the  corner  of  the  bench.  The 
ladies  rose  up  ;  somebody  had  to  stand  ;  the  two  races 
could  not  both  sit  down  at  once  —  at  least  not  in  that 
public  manner. 

"  Your  salts,"  said  the  physician  to  his  wife.  She 
handed  the  vial.     Madame  Delphine  stood  up  again. 

"  We  will  all  go  inside,"  said  Madame  Thompson, 
and  they  passed  through  the  gate  and  up  the  walk, 
mounted  the  steps,  and  entered  the  deep,  cool  drawing- 
room. 

Madame  Thompson  herself  bade  the  quadroone  be 
seated. 

"Well?"  said  Jean  Thompson,  as  the  rest  took 
chairs. 


74  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"  C'est  drole"  —  it's  funny  —  said  Madame  Del- 
phine,  with  a  piteous  effort  to  smile,  "that  nobody 
thought  of  it.  It  is  so  plain.  You  have  only  to  look 
and  see.  I  mean  about  Olive."  She  loosed  a  button 
in  the  front  of  her  dress  and  passed  her  hand  into  her 
bosom.  "  And  yet,  Olive  herself  never  thought  of  it. 
She  does  not  know  a  word." 

The  hand  came  out  holding  a  miniature.  Madame 
Varrillat  passed  it  to  Jean  Thompson. 

"  Ouala  so pojya,"  said  Madame  Delphine.  "That 
is  her  father." 

It  went  from  one  to  another,  exciting  admiration 
and  murmured  praise. 

"  She  is  the  image  of  him,"  said  Madame  Thompson, 
in  an  austere  undertone,  returning  it  to  her  husband. 

Doctor  Varrillat  was  watching  Madame  Delphine. 
She  was  very  pale.  She  had  passed  a  trembling  hand 
into  a  pocket  of  her  skirt,  and  now  drew  out  another 
picture,  in  a  case  the  counterpart  of  the  first.  He 
reached  out  for  it,  and  she  handed  it  to  him.  He 
looked  at  it  a  moment,  when  his  eyes  suddenly  lighted 
up  and  he  passed  it  to  the  attorney. 

"  .E7  la  "  —  Madame  Delphine's  utterance  failed  — 
"  et  Id,  ouala  sa  moman.     That  is  her  mother." 

The  three  others  instantly  gathered  around  Jean 
Thompson's  chair.     They  wei*e  much  impressed. 

"It  is  true  beyond  a  doubt!"  muttered  Madame 
Thompson. 

Madame  Varrillat  looked  at  her  with  astonishment. 

"The  proof  is  right  there  in  the  faces,"  said 
Madame  Thompson. 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  75 

"Yes!  yes!"  said  Madame  Delphine,  excitedly; 
"the  proof  is  there!  You  do  not  want  any  better! 
I  am  willing  to  swear  to  it !  But  you  want  no  better 
proof  !  That  is  all  anybody  could  want !  My  God ! 
you  cannot  help  but  see  it !  "  * 

Her  manner  was  wild. 

Jean  Thompson  looked  at  her  sternly. 

' '  Nevertheless  you  say  you  are  willing  to  take  your 
solemn  oath  to  this." 

"Certainly"  — 

"  You  will  have  to  do  it." 

"  Certainly,  Miche  Thompson,  of  course  I  shall ;  you 
will  make  out  the  paper  and  I  will  swear  before  God 
that  it  is  true  !  Only  "  —  turning  to  the  ladies  —  "do 
not  tell  Olive  ;  she  will  never  believe  it.  It  will  break 
her  heart !     It  "  — 

A  servant  came  and  spoke  privately  to  Madame 
Thompson,  who  rose  quickly  and  went  to  the  hall. 
Madame  Delphine  continued,  rising  unconsciously : 

"You  see,  I  have  had  her  with  me  from  a  baby. 
She  knows  no  better.  He  brought  her  to  me  only  two 
months  old.  Her  mother  had  died  in  the  ship,  coming 
out  here.  He  did  not  come  straight  from  home  here. 
His  people  never  knew  he  was  married  ! ' ' 

The  speaker  looked  around  suddenly  with  a  startled 
glance.  There  was  a  noise  of  excited  speaking  in  the 
hall. 

"It  is  not  true,  Madame  Thompson!"  cried  a 
girl's  voice. 

Madame  Delphine's  lock  became  one  of  wildest 
distress  and  alarm,  and  she  opened  her  lips  in  a  vain 


76  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

attempt  to  utter  some  request,  when  Olive  appeared  a 
moment  in  the  door,  and  then  flew  into  her  arms. 

"  My  mother  !  my  mother  !  my  mother  !  " 

Madame  Thompson,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  tenderly 
drew  them  apart  and  let  Madame  Delphine  down  into 
her  chair,  while  Olive  threw  herself  upon  her  knees, 
continuing  to^cry : 

"  Oh,  my  mother  !     Say  you  are  my  mother  !  " 

Madame  Delphine  looked  an  instant  into  the  up- 
turned face,  and  then  turned  her  own  away,  with  a 
long,  low  cry  of  pain,  looked  again,  and  laying  both 
hands  upon  the  suppliant's  head,  said: 

"  Oh,  cMre  piti  a  moin,  to  pa'  ma  fie!"  — Oh,  my 
darling  little  one,  you  are  not  my  daughter!  —  Her 
eyes  closed,  and  her  head  sank  back  ;  the  two  gentle- 
men sprang  to  her  assistance,  and  laid  her  upon  a  sofa 
unconscious. 

When  they  brought  her  to  herself,  Olive  was  kneel- 
ing at  her  head  silently  weeping. 

"  Maman,  chere  maman!"  said  the  girl  softly, 
kissing  her  lips. 

' '  Ma  courri  c'ez  moin  "  —  I  will  go  home  —  said  the 
mother,  drearily. 

"  You  will  go  home  with  me,"  said  Madame 
Varrillat,  with  great  kindness  of  manner — "just 
across  the  street  here  ;  I  will  take  care  of  you  till  you 
feel  better.  And  Olive  will  stay  here  with  Madame 
Thompson.  You  will  be  only  the  width  of  the  street 
apart." 

But  Madame  Delphine  would  go  nowhere  but  to 
her  home.     Olive  she  would  not  allow  to  go  with  her. 


MADAME  DELPHINE.  77 

Then  they  wanted  to  send  a  servant  or  two  to  sleep  in 
the  house  with  her  for  aid  and  protection  ;  but  all  she 
would  accept  was  the  transient  service  of  a  messenger 
to  invite  two  of  her  kinspeople  —  man  and  wife  —  to 
come  and  make  their  dwelling  with  her. 

In  course  of  time  these  two  —  a  poor,  timid,  help- 
less pair  —  fell  heir  to  the  premises.  Their  children 
had  it  after  them  ;  but,  whether  in  those  hands  or 
these,  the  house  had  its  habits  and  continued  in  them  ; 
and  to  this  day  the  neighbors,  as  has  already  been 
said,  rightly  explain  its  close-sealed,  uninhabited  look 
by  the  all-sufficient  statement  that  the  inmates  "is 
quadroons." 


CHAPTER   XV. 

KYBIE    ELEISON. 


The  second  Saturday  afternoon  following  was  hot 
and  calm.  The  lamp  burning  before  the  tabernacle  in 
Pere  Jerome's  little  church  might  have  hung  with  as 
motionless  a  flame  in  the  window  behind.  The  lilies 
of  St.  Joseph's  wand,  shining  in  one  of  the  half 
opened  panes,  were  not  more  completely  at  rest  than 
the  leaves  on  tree  and  vine  without,  suspended  in  the 
slumbering  air.  Almost  as  still,  down  under  the 
organ-gallery,  with  a  single  band  of  light  falling 
athwart  his  box  from  a  small  door  which  stood  ajar, 
sat  the  little  priest,  behind  the  lattice  of  the  confes- 
sional, silently  wiping  away  the  sweat  that  beaded  on 


78  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

his  brow  and  rolled  down  his  face.  At  distant  inter- 
vals the  shadow  of  some  one  entering  softly  through 
the  door  would  obscure,  for  a  moment,  the  band  of 
light,  and  an  aged  crone,  or  a  little  boy,  or  some  gen- 
tle presence  that  the  listening  confessor  had  known 
only  by  the  voice  for  many  years,  would  kneel  a  few 
moments  beside  his  waiting  ear,  in  prayer  for  blessing 
and  in  review  of  those  slips  and  errors  which  prove  us 
all  akin. 

The  day  had  been  long  and  fatiguing.  First,  early 
mass  ;  a  hasty  meal ;  then  a  business  call  upon  the 
archbishop  in  the  interest  of  some  projected  charity ; 
then  back  to  his  cottage,  and  so  to  the  banking-house 
of  "  Vignevielle,"  in  the  Rue  Toulouse.  There  all 
was  open,  bright,  and  re-assured,  its  master  virtually, 
though  not  actually,  present.  The  search  was  over 
and  the  seekers  gone,  personally  wiser  than  they  would 
tell,  and  officially  reporting  that  (to  the  best  of  their 
knowledge  and  belief,  based  on  evidence,  and  especially 
on  the  assurances  of  an  unexceptionable  eye-witness, 
to  wit,  Monsieur  Vignevielle,  banker)  Capitaine  Le- 
maitre  was  dead  and  buried.  At  noon  there  had  been 
a  wedding  in  the  little  church.  Its  scenes  lingered  be- 
fore Pere  Jerome's  vision  now  —  the  kneeling  pair: 
the  bridegroom,  rich  in  all  the  excellences  of  man, 
strength  and  kindness  slumbering  interlocked  in  every 
part  and  feature  ;  the  bride,  a  saintly  weariness  on  her 
pale  face,  her  awesome  eyes  lifted  in  adoration  upon 
the  image  of  the  Saviour ;  the  small  knots  of  friends 
behind  :  Madame  Thompson,  large,  fair,  self-contained  ; 
Jean  Thompson,  with  the  affidavit  of  Madame  Delphine 


MADAME  BELPHINE,  79 

showing  through  his  tightly  buttoned  coat ;  the  physi- 
cian and  his  wife,  sharing  one  expression  of  amiable 
consent ;  and  last  —  yet  first  —  one  small,  shrinking 
female  figure,  here  at  one  side,  in  faded  robes  and 
dingy  bonnet.  She  sat  as  motionless  as  stone,  yet 
wore  a  look  of  apprehension,  and  in  the  small,  restless 
black  eyes  which  peered  out  from  the  pinched  and 
wasted  face,  betrayed  the  peacelessness  of  a  harrowed 
mind ;  and  neither  the  recollection  of  bride,  nor  of 
groom,  nor  of  potential  friends  behind,  nor  the  occu- 
pation of  the  present  hour,  could  shut  out  from  the 
tired  priest  the  image  of  that  woman,  or  the  sound  of 
his  own  low  words  of  invitation  to  her,  given  as  the 
company  left  the  church  —  ' '  Come  to  confession  this 
afternoon." 

By  and  by  a  long  time  passed  without  the  approach 
of  any  step,  or  any  glancing  of  light  or  shadow,  save 
for  the  occasional  progress  from  station  to  station  of 
some  one  over  on  the  right  who  was  noiselessly  going 
the  way  of  the  cross.     Yet  Pere  Jerome  tarried. 

"  She  will  surely  come,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  she 
promised  she  would  come." 

A  moment  later,  his  sense,  quickened  by  the  pro- 
longed silence,  caught  a  subtle  evidence  or  two  of 
approach,  and  the  next  moment  a  penitent  knelt  noise- 
lessly at  the  window  of  his  box,  and  the  whisper  came 
tremblingly,  in  the  voice  he  had  waited  to  hear : 

"  Benissez-moin,  mo'  Pere,  pa'ce  que  mo  peche"." 
(Bless  me,  father,  for  I  have  sinned.) 

He  gave  his  blessing. 

"  Ainsi  soit-il  —  Amen,"   murmured   the   penitent, 


80  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

and  then,  in  the  soft  accents  of  the  Creole  patois,  con- 
tinued : 

"  '  I  confess  to  Almighty  God,  to  the  blessed  Mary, 
ever  Virgin,  to  blessed  Michael  the  Archangel,  to 
blessed  John  the  Baptist,  to  the  holy  Apostles  Peter 
and  Paul,  and  to  all  the  saints,  that  I  have  sinned 
exceedingly  in  thought,  word,  and  deed,  through  my 
fault,  through  my  fault,  through  my  most  grievous 
fault.'  I  confessed  on  Saturday,  three  weeks  ago, 
and  received  absolution,  and  I  have  performed  the 
penance  enjoined.  Since  then  "  —  There  she 
stopped. 

There  was  a  soft  stir,  as  if  she  sank  slowly  down, 
and  another  as  if  she  rose  up  again,  and  in  a  moment 
she  said : 

"  Olive  is  my  child.  The  picture  I  showed  to  Jean 
Thompson  is  the  half-sister  of  my  daughter's  father, 
dead  before  my  child  was  born.  She  is  the  image  of 
her  and  of  him  ;  but,  O  God  !  Thou  knowest !  Oh, 
Olive,  my  own  daughter  !  " 

She  ceased,  and  was  still.  Pere  Jerome  waited,  but 
no  sound  came.  He  looked  through  the  window. 
She  was  kneeling,  with  her  forehead  resting  on  her 
arms  —  motionless. 

He  repeated  the  words  of  absolution.  Still  she  did 
not  stir. 

"My  daughter,"  he  said,  "go  to  thy  home  in 
peace."     But  she  did  not  move. 

He  rose  hastily,  stepped  from  the  box,  raised  her  in 
his  arms,  and  called  her  by  name  : 

' '  Madame  Delphine  ! ' '     Her  head  fell  back  in  his 


MADAME  DELPUINE.  81 

elbow ;  for  an  instant  there  was  life  in  the  eyes  —  it 
glimmered  —  it  vanished,  and  tears  gushed  from  his 
own  and  fell  upon  the  gentle  face  of  the  dead,  as  he 
looked  up  to  heaven  and  cried : 

"  Lord,  lay  not  this  sin  to  her  charge  !  " 


Cafe   des   Exiles. 


CAFE   DES   EXILES. 


That  which  in  1835  —  I  think  he  said  thirty-five 
—  was  a  reality  in  the  Rue  Burgundy  —  I  think  he 
said  Burgundy  —  is  now  but  a  reminiscence.  Yet  so 
vividly  was  its  story  told  me,  that  at  this  moment  the 
old  Cafe  des  Exiles  appears  before  my  eye,  floating  in 
the  clouds  of  revery,  and  I  doubt  not  I  see  it  just  as 
it  was  in  the  old  times. 

An  antiquated  story-and-a-half  Creole  cottage  sit- 
ting right  down  on  the  banquette,  as  do  the  Choctaw 
squaws  who  sell  bay  and  sassafras  and  life-everlasting, 
with  a  high,  close  board-fence  shutting  out  of  view 
the  diminutive  garden  on  the  southern  side.  An  an- 
cient willow  droops  over  the  roof  of  round  tiles,  and 
partly  hides  the  discolored  stucco,  which. keeps  drop- 
ping off  into  the  garden  as  though  the  old  cafe  was 
stripping  for  the  plunge  into  oblivion  —  disrobing  for 
its  execution.  I  see,  well  up  in  the  angle  of  the  broad 
side  gable,  shaded  by  its  rude  awning  of  clapboards, 
as  the  eyes  of  an  old  dame  are  shaded  by  her  wrinkled 
hand,  the  window  of  Pauline.  Ohy  for  the  image  of 
the  maiden,  were  it  but  for  one  moment,  leaning  out 
of  the  casement  to  hang  her  mocking-bird  and  looking 

85 


86  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

down  into  the  garden,  —  where,  above  the  barrier  of 
old  boards,  I  see  the  top  of  the  fig-tree,  the  pale  green 
clump  of  bananas,  the  tall  palmetto  with  its  jagged 
crown,  Pauline's  own  two  orange-trees  holding  up 
their  hands  toward  the  window,  heavy  with  the  prom- 
ises of  autumn  ;  the  broad,  crimson  mass  of  the  many- 
stemmed  oleander,  and  the  crisp  boughs  of  the  pome- 
granate loaded  with  freckled  apples,  and  with  here 
and  there  a  lingering  scarlet  blossom. 

The  Cafe"  des  Exiles,  to  use  a  figure,  flowered,  bore 
fruit,  and  dropped  it  long  ago  —  or  rather  Time  and 
Fate,  like  some  uncursed  Adam  and  Eve,  came  side 
by  side  and  cut  away  its  clusters,  as  we  sever  the 
golden  burden  of  the  banana  from  its  stem ;  then, 
like  a  banana  which  has  borne  its  fruit,  it  was  razed 
to  the  ground  and  made  way  for  a  newer,  brighter 
growth.  I  believe  it  would  set  every  tooth  on  edge 
should  I  go  by  there  now,  —  now  that  I  have  heard 
the  story,  —  and  see  the  old  site  covered  by  the  "  Shoo- 
fly  Coffee-house."  Pleasanter  far  to  close  my  eyes 
and  call  to  view  the  unpretentious  portals  of  the  old 
caf6,  with  her  children  —  for  such  those  exiles  seem 
to  me  —  dragging  their  rocking-chairs  out,  and  sitting 
in  their  wonted  group  under  the  long,  out-reaching 
eaves  which  shaded  the  banquette  of  the  Rue  Bur- 
gundy. 

It  was  in  1835  that  the  Caf6  des  Exiles  was,  as  one 
might  say,  in  full  blossom.  Old  M.  DTIemecourt, 
father  of  Pauline  and  host  of  the  caf£,  himself  a  refu- 
gee from  San  Domingo,  was  the  cause  —  at  least  the 
human  cause  —  of  its  opening.    As  its  white-curtained. 


CAFfi  DES  EXILE'S.  87 

glazed  doors  expanded,  emitting  a  little  puff  of  his 
own  cigarette  smoke,  it  was  like  the  bursting  of  catalpa 
blossoms,  and  the  exiles  came  like  bees,  pushing  into 
the  tiny  room  to  sip  its  rich  variety  of  tropical  sirups, 
its  lemonades,  its  orangeades,  its  orgeats,  its  barley- 
waters,  and  its  outlandish  wines,  while  they  talked  of 
dear  home  —  that  is  to  say,  of  Barbadoes,  of  Marti- 
nique, of  San  Domingo,  and  of  Cuba. 

There  were  Pedro  and  Benigno,  and  Fernandez  and 
Francisco,  and  Benito.  Benito  was  a  tall,  swarthy 
man,  with  immense  gray  moustachios,  and  hair  as 
harsh  as  tropical  grass  and  gray  as  ashes.  When  he 
could  spare  his  cigarette  from  his  lips,  he  would  tell 
you  in  a  cavernous  voice,  and  with  a  wrinkled  smile, 
that  he  was  "  a-t-thorty-seveng." 

There  was  Martinez  of  San  Domingo,  yellow,  as  a 
canary,  always  sitting  with  one  leg  curled  under  him, 
and  holding  the  back  of  his  head  in  his  knitted  fingers 
against  the  back  of  his  rocking-chair.  Father,  mother, 
brother,  sisters,  all,  had  been  massacred  in  the  strug- 
gle of  '21  and  '22 ;  he  alone  was  left  to  tell  the  tale, 
and  told  it  often,  with  that  strange,  infantile  insensi- 
bility to  the  solemnity  of  his  bereavement  so  peculiar 
to  Latin  people. 

But,  besides  these,  and  many  who  need  no  mention, 
there  were  two  in  particular,  around  whom  all  the 
story  of  the  Cafe"  des  Exiles,  of  old  M.  D'Hemecourt 
and  of  Pauline,  turns  as  on  a  double  centre.  First, 
Manuel  Mazaro,  whose  small,  restless  eyes  were  as 
black  and  bright  as  those  of  a  mouse,  whose  light  talk 
became  his  dark  girlish  face,  and  whose  redundant 


88  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

locks  curled  so  prettily  and  so  wonderfully  black  under 
the  fine  white  brim  of  his  jaunty  Panama.  He  had 
the  hands  of  a  woman,  save  that  the  nails  were  stained 
with  the  smoke  of  cigarettes.  He  could  play  the 
guitar  delightfully,  and  wore  his  knife  down  behind 
his  coat-collar. 

The  second  was  "Major"  Galahad  Shaughnessy. 
I  imagine  I  can  see  him,  in  his  white  duck,  brass- 
buttoned  roundabout,  with  his  sabreless  belt  peeping 
out  beneath,  all  his  boyishness  in  his  sea-blue  eyes, 
leaning  lightly  against  the  door-post  of  the  Cafe"  des 
Exiles  as  a  child  leans  against  his  mother,  running  his 
fingers  over  a  basketful  of  fragrant  limes,  and  watch- 
ing his  chance  to  strike  seme  solemn  Creole  under  the 
fifth  rib  with  a  good  old  Irish  joke. 

Old  D'Hemecourt  drew  him  close  to  his  bosom. 
The  Spanish  Creoles  were,  as  the  old  man  termed 
it,  both  cold  and  hot,  but  never  warm.  Major  Shaugh- 
nessy was  warm,  and  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  to 
find  those  two  apart  from  the  others,  talking  in  an 
undertone,  and  playing  at  confidantes  like  two  school- 
girls. The  kind  old  man  was  at  this  time  drifting 
close  up  to  his  sixtieth  year.  There  was  much  he 
could  tell  of  San  Domingo,  whither  he  had  been  car- 
ried from  Martinique  in  his  childhood,  whence  he  had 
become  a  refugee  to  Cuba,  and  thence  to  New  Orleans 
in  the  flight  of  1809. 

It  fell  one  day  to  Manuel  Mazaro's  lot  to  discover, 
by  sauntering  within  earshot,  that  to  Galahad  Shaugh- 
nessy only,  of  all  the  children  of  the  Caf6  des  Exiles, 
the  good  host  spoke  long  and  confidentially  concern- 


CAFti  DES  EXILE'S.  89 

ing  his  daughter.  The  words,  half  heard  and  mag- 
nified like  objects  seem  in  a  fog,  meaning  Manuel 
Mazaro  knew  not  what,  but  made  portentous  by  his 
suspicious  nature,  were  but  the  old  man's  recital  of 
the  grinding  he  had  got  between  the  millstones  of  his 
poverty  and  his  pride,  in  trying  so  long  to  sustain,  for 
little  Pauline's  sake,  that  attitude  before  society  which 
earns  respect  from  a  surface-viewing  world.  It  was 
while  he  was  telling  this  that  Manuel  Mazaro  drew 
near ;  the  old  man  paused  in  an  embarrassed  way ; 
the  Major,  sitting  sidewise  in  his  chair,  lifted  his  cheek 
from  its  resting-place  on  his  elbow ;  and  Mazaro, 
after  standing  an  awkward  moment,  turned  away  with 
such  an  inward  feeling  as  one  may  guess  would  arise 
in  a  heart  full  of  Cuban  blood,  not  unmixed  with 
Indian. 

As  he  moved  off,  M.  D'Hemecourt  resumed :  that  in 
a  last  extremity  he  had  opened,  partly  from  dire  want, 
partly  for  very  love  to  homeless  souls,  the  Cafe  des 
Exiles.  He  had  hoped  that,  as  strong  drink  and  high 
words  were  to  bo  alike  unknown  to  it,  it  might  not 
prejudice  sensible  people ;  but  it  had.  He  had  no 
doubt  they  said  among  themselves,  "  She  is  an  excel- 
lent and  beautiful  girl  and  deserving  all  respect;" 
and  respect  they  accorded,  but  their  respects  they 
never  came  to  pay. 

"  A  cafe  is  a  cafe,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  It  is 
nod  possib'  to  ezcape  him,  aldough  de  Cafe  des  Exiles 
is  differen'  from  de  rez." 

"  It's  different  from  the  Cafe  des  Kefugies,"  sug- 
gested the  Irishman. 


90  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

"Differen'  as  possib',"  replied  M.  D'Hemecourt. 
He  looked  about  upon  the  walls.  The  shelves  were 
luscious .  with  ranks  of  cooling  sirups  Avhich  he  alone 
knew  how  to  make.  The  expression  of  his  face 
changed  from  sadness  to  a  gentle  pride,  which  spoke 
without  words,  saying  —  and  let  our  story  pause  a 
moment  to  hear  it  say  : 

"  If  any  poor  exile,  from  any  island  where  guavas 
or  mangoes  or  plantains  grow,  wants  a  draught  which 
will  make  him  see  his  home  among  the  cocoa-palms, 
behold  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  ready  to  take  the  poor  child 
up  and  give  him  the  breast !  And  if  gold  or  silver  he 
has  them  not,  why  Heaven  and  Santa  Maria,  and 
Saint  Christopher  bless  him  !  It  makes  no  difference. 
Here  is  a  rocking-chair,  here  a  cigarette,  and  here  a 
light  from  the  host's  own  tinder.  He  will  pay  when  he 
can." 

As  this  easily  pardoned  pride '"said,  so  it  often  oc- 
curred ;  and  if  the  newly  come  (  xile  said  his  father 
was  a  Spaniard  —  Come!"  old  M.  D'Hemecourt 
would  cry  ;  ' '  another  glass  ;  it  is  an  innocent  drink  ; 
my  mother  was  a  Castilian."  But,  if  the  exile  said 
his  mother  was  a  Frenchwoman,  the  glasses  would  be 
forthcoming  all  the  same,  for  "  My  father,"  the  old 
man  would  sa}^,  "was  a  Frenchman  of  Martinique, 
with  blood  as  pure  as  that  wine  and  a  heart  as  sweet 
as  this  honey;  come,  a  glass  of  orgeat;"  and  he 
would  bring  it  himself  in  a  quart  tumbler. 

Now,  there  are  jealousies  and  jealousies.  There 
are  people  who  rise  up  quickly  and  kill,  and  there  are 
others  who   turn   their  hot  thoughts  over  silently  in 


CAFfi  DES  EXILES.  91 

their  minds  as  a  brooding  bird  turns  her  eggs  in  the 
nest.  Thus  did  Manuel  Mazaro,  and  took  it  ill  that 
Galahad  should  see  a  vision  in  the  temple  while  he 
and  all  the  brethren  tarried  without.  Pauline  had  been 
to  the  Caf6  des  Exiles  in  some  degree  what  the  image 
of  the  Virgin  was  to  their  churches  at  home  ;  and  for 
her  father  to  whisper  her  name  to  one  and  not  to  an- 
other was,  it  seemed  to  Mazaro,  as  if  the  old  man, 
were  he  a  sacristan,  should  say  to  some  single  wor- 
shiper, "  Here,  you  may  have  this  madonna;  I  make 
it  a  present  to  you."  Or,  if  such  was  not  the  hand- 
some young  Cuban's  feeling,  such,  at  least,  was  the 
disguise  his  jealousy  put  on.  If  Pauline  was  to  be 
handed  down  from  her  niche,  why,  then,  farewell  Cafe 
des  Exiles.  She  was  its  preserving  influence,  she 
made  the  place  holy ;  she  was  the  burning  candles  on 
the  altar.  Surely  the  reader  will  pardon  the  pen  that 
lingers  in  the  mention  of  her. 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  to  describe  the  forbearing, 
unspoken  tenderness  with  which  all  these  exiles  re- 
garded the  maiden.  In  the  balmy  afternoons,  as  I 
have  said,  they  gathered  about  their  mother's  knee, 
that  is  to  say,  upon  the  banquette  outside  the  door. 
There,  lolling  back  in  their  rocking-chairs,  they  would 
pass  the  evening  hours  with  oft-repeated  tales  of  home  ; 
and  the  moon  would  come  out  and  glide  among  the 
clouds  like  a  silver  barge  among  islands  wrapped  in 
mist,  and  they  loved  the  silently  gliding  orb  with  a 
sort  of  worship,  because  from  her  soaring  height  she 
looked  down  at  the  same  moment  upon  them  and  upon 
their  homes  in  the  far  Antilles.     It  was  somewhat  thus 


92  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

that  they  looked  upon  Pauline  as  she  seemed  to  them 
held  up  half  way  to  heaven,  they  knew  not  how.  Ah ! 
those  who  have  been  pilgrims  ;  who  have  wandered 
out  beyond  harbor  and  light ;  whom  fate  hath  led  in 
lonely  paths  strewn  with  thorns  and  briers  not  of  their 
own  sowing ;  who,  homeless  in  a  land  of  homes,  see 
windows  gleaming  and  doors  ajar,  but  not  for  them, — 
it  is  they  who  well  understand  what  the  worship  is  that 
cries  to  any  daughter  of  our  dear  mother  Eve  whose 
footsteps  chance  may  draw  across  the  path,  the  silent, 
beseeching  cry,  "  Stay  a  little  instant  that  I  may  look 
upon  you.  Oh,  woman,  beautifier  of  the  earth  !  Stay 
till  I  recall  the  face  of  my  sister  ;  stay  yet  a  moment 
while  I  look  from  afar,  with  helpless-hanging  hands, 
upon  the  softness  of  thy  cheek,  upon  the  folded  coils 
of  thy  shining  hair ;  and  my  spirit  shall  fall  down  and 
say  those  prayers  which  I  may  never  again  —  God 
knoweth  —  say  at  home. ' ' 

She  was  seldom  seen ;  but  sometimes,  when  the 
lounging  exiles  would  be  sitting  in  their  afternoon 
circle  under  the  eaves,  and  some  old  man  would  tell 
his  tale  of  fire  and  blood  and  capture  and  escape,  and 
the  heads  would  lean  forward  from  the  chair-backs 
and  a  great  stillness  would  follow  the  ending  of  the 
story,  old  M.  D'Hemecourt  would  all  at  once  speak  up 
and  say,  laying  his  hands  upon  the  narrator's  knee, 
"Comrade,  your  throat  is  dry,  here  are  fresh  limes; 
let  my  dear  child  herself  come  and  mix  you  a  lemon- 
ade." Then  the  neighbors  over  the  way,  sitting  about 
their  doors,  would  by  and  by  softly  say,  "See,  see! 
there  is  Pauline  !  "  and  all  the  exiles  would  rise  from 


CAFfi  DES  EXILE'S.  93 

their  rocking-chairs,  take  off  their  hats  and  stand  as 
men  stand  in  church,  while  Pauline  came  out  like  the 
moon  from  a  cloud,  descended  the  three  steps  of  the 
cafe-  door,  and  stood  with  waiter  and  glass,  a  new  Re- 
becca with  her  pitcher,  before  the  swarthy  wanderer. 

"What  tales  that  would  have  been  tear-compelling, 
nay,  heart-rending,  had  they  not  been  palpable  inven- 
tions, the  pretty,  womanish  Mazaro  from  time  to  time 
poured  forth,  in  the  ever  ungratified  hope  that  the  god- 
dess might  come  down  with  a  draught  of  nectar  for 
him,  it  profiteth  not  to  recount ;  but  I  should  fail  to 
show  a  family  feature  of  the  Cafe"  des  Exiles  did  1 
omit  to  say  that  these  make-believe  adventures  were 
heard  with  every  mark  of  respect  and  credence  ;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  they  were  never  attempted  in  tho 
presence  of  the  Irishman.  He  would  have  moved  an 
.eyebrow,  or  made  some  barely  audible  sound,  or 
dropped  some  seemingly  innocent  word,  and  the  whole 
company,  spite  of  themselves,  would  have  smiled. 
Wherefore,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  at  any  time  the 
curly-haired  young  Cuban  had  that  playful  affection 
for  his  Celtic  comrade,  which  a  habit  of  giving  little 
velvet  taps  to  Galahad's  cheek  made  a  show  of. 

Such  was  the  Cafe  des  Exiles,  such  its  inmates,  such 
its  guests,  when  certain  apparently  trivial  events  began 
to  fall  around  it  as  germs  of  blight  fall  upon  corn,  and 
to  bring  about  that  end  which  cometh  to  all  things. 

The  little  seed  of  jealousy,  dropped  into  the  heart 
of  Manuel  Mazaro,  we  have  already  taken  into  account. 

Galahad  Shaughnessy  began  to  be  specially  active 
in  organizing  a  society  of  Spanish  Americans,  the  de- 


94  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

sign  of  which,  as  set  forth  in  its  manuscript  constitu- 
tion, was  to  provide  proper  funeral  honors  to  such  of 
their  membership  as  might  be  overtaken  by  death ; 
and,  whenever  it  was  practicable,  to  send  their  ashes 
to  their  native  land.  Next  to  Galahad  in  this  move- 
ment was  an  elegant  old  Mexican  physician,  Dr. , 

—  his  name  escapes  me  —  whom  the  Cafe  des  Exiles 
sometimes  took  upon  her  lap  —  that  is  to  say  door-step 

—  but  whose  favorite  resort  was  the  old  Cafe  des 
Refugids  in  the  Rue  Royale  (Royal  Street,  as  it  was 
beginning  to  be  called) .  Manuel  Mazaro  was  made 
secretary. 

It  was  for  some  reason  thought  judicious  for  the 
society  to  hold  its  meetings  in  various  places,  now 
here,  now  there  ;  but  the  most  frequent  rendezvous 
was  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  ;  it  was  quiet ;  those  Spanish 
Creoles,  however  they  may  afterward  cackle,  like  to 
lay  their  plans  noiselessly,  like  a  hen  in  a  barn. 
There  was  a  ve^y  general  confidence  in  this  old  insti- 
tution, a  kind  of  inward  assurance  that  "mother 
wouldn't  tell;"  though,  after  all,  what  great  secrets 
could  there  be  connected  with  a  mere  burial  society? 

Before  the  hour  of  meeting,  the  Cafe"  des  ExiL's 
always  sent .  away  her  children  and  closed  her  door. 
Presently  they  would  commence  returning,  one  by  one, 
as  a  flock  of  wild  fowl  will  do,  that  has  been  startled 
up  from  its  accustomed  haunt.  Frequenters  of  the 
Cafe"  des  Refugi6s  also  would  appear.  A  small  gate 
in  the  close  garden-fence  let  them  into  a  room  behind 
the  cafe"  proper,  and  by  and  by  the  apartment  would 
be  full  of  dark-visaged  men  conversing  in  the  low, 


CAFE'  BES  EXILE'S.  95 

courteous  tone  common  to  their  race.  The  shutters 
of  doors  and  windows  were  closed  and  the  chinks 
stopped  with  cotton ;  some  people  are  so  jealous  of 
observation. 

On  a  certain  night  after  one  of  these  meetings  had 
dispersed  in  its  peculiar  way,  the  members  retiring  two 
by  two  at  intervals,  Manuel  Mazaro  and  M.  D'Herne- 
court  were  left  alone,  sitting  close  together  in  the 
dimly  lighted  room,  the  former  speaking,  the  other, 
with  no  pleasant  countenance,  attending.  It  seemed 
to  the  young  Cuban  a  proper  precaution  —  he  was 
made  of  precautions  —  to  speak  in  English.  His  voice 
was  barely  audible. 

" sayce  to  me,  '  Manuel,  she  t-theeng  I  want-n 

to  marry  hore.'  Senor,  you  shouth  'ave  see'  him 
laugh !  " 

M.  D'Hemecourt  lifted  up  his  head,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  young  man's  arm. 

"Manuel  Mazaro,"  he  began,  "  iv  dad  w'ad  you 
say  is  nod  ' '  — 

The  Cuban  interrupted. 

"If  is  no'  t-thrue  you  will  keel  Manuel  Mazaro?  — 
a'  r-r-right-a !  " 

"No,"  said  the  tender  old  man,  "no,  bud  h-I  am 
positeef  dad  de  Madjor  will  shood  you." 

Mazaro  nodded,  and  lifted  one  finger  for  attention. 

" sayce  to  me,  '  Manuel,  you  goin'  tell-a  Senor 

D'Hemecourt,  I  fin'-a  you  some  nigh'  an'  cut-a  you' 
heart  ou'.  An'  I  sayce  to  heem-a,  '  Boat-a  if  Senor 
D'Hemecourt  he  fin'-in'  ou'  frone  Pauline  '  " — 

"Silence!  "  fiercely  cried  the  old  man.     "  My  God  ! 


96  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

'Sieur  Mazaro,  neider  }Tou,  neider  somebody  helse  s'all 
h'use  de  nem  of  me  daughter.  It  is  nod  possib'  dad 
you  s'all  spick  him  !     I  cannot  pearmid  thad." 

"While  the  old  man  was  speaking  these  vehement 
words,  the  Cuban  was  emphatically  nodding  approval. 

"Co-rect-a,  co-rect-a,  Senor,"  he  replied.  "Senor, 
you'  r-r-right-a ;  escuse-a  me,  Senor,  escuse-a  me. 
Seiior  D'Hemecourt,  Mayor  Shaughness',  when  he 
talkin'  wi'  me  he  usin'  hore-a  name  o  the  t-thime-a !  " 

"My  fren',"  said  M.  D'Hemecourt,  risiug  and 
speaking  with  labored  control,  "  I  muz  tell  you  good 
nighd.  You  'ave  sooprise  me  a  verry  gred  deal.  I 
s'all  investigade  doze  ting;  an',  Manuel  Mazaro,  h-I 
am  a  hole  man ;  bud  I  will  requez  you,  iv  dad  wad 
you  say  is  nod  de  true,  my  God  !  not  to  h-ever  ritturn 
again  ad  de  Cafe  des  Exiles." 

Mazaro  smiled  and  nodded.  His  host  opened  the 
door  into  the  garden,  and,  as  the  young  man  stepped 
out,  noticed  even  then  how  handsome  was  his  face  and 
figure,  and  how  the  odor  of  the  night  jasmine  was 
filling  the  air  with  an  almost  insupportable  sweetness. 
The  Cuban  paused  a  moment,  as  if  to  speak,  but 
checked  himself,  lifted  his  girlish  face,  and  looked  up 
to  where  the  daggers  of  the  palmetto-tree  were  crossed 
upon  the  face  of  the  moon,  dropped  his  glance,  touched 
his  Panama,  and  silently  followed  by  the  bare-headed 
old  man,  drew  open  the  little  garden-gate,  looked  cau- 
tiously out,  said  good-night,  and  stepped  into  the 
street. 

As  M.  D'Hemecourt  returned  to  the  door  through 
which  he  had  come,  he  uttered  an  ejaculation  of  aston- 


CAFfi  DES  EXILE'S.  97 

ishment.  Pauline  stood  before  him.  She  spoke  hur- 
riedly in  French. 

"Papa,  papa,  it  is  not  true." 

"No,  my  child,"  he  responded,  "I  am  sure  it  is 
not  true  ;  I  am  sure  it  is  all  false  ;  but  why  do  I  find 
you  out  of  bed  so  late,  little  bird?  The  night  is  nearly 
gone." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  cheek. 

"Ah,  papa,  I  cannot  deceive  you.  I  thought  Man- 
uel would  tell  you  something  of  this  kind,  and  I 
listened." 

The  father's  face  immediately  betrayed  a  new  and 
deeper  distress. 

"Pauline,  my  child,"  he  said  with  tremulous  voice, 
"  if  Manuel's  story  is  all  false,  in  the  name  of  Heaven 
how  could  you  think  he  was  going  to  tell  it?  " 

He  unconsciously  clasped  his  hands.  The  good 
child  had  one  trait  which  she  could  not  have  inherited 
from  her  father  ;  she  was  quick-witted  and  discerning  ; 
yet  now  she  stood  confounded. 

"Speak,  my  child,"  cried  the  alarmed  old  man; 
"  speak  !  let  me  live,  and  not  die." 

"  Oh,  papa,"  she  cried,  "I  do  not  know  !  " 

The  old  man  groaned. 

"Papa,  papa,"  she  cried  again,  "I  felt  it;  I  know 
not  how  ;  something  told  me." 

"Alas!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  "if  it  was  your 
conscience!  " 

"No,  no,  no,  papa,"  cried  Pauline,  "but  I  was 
afraid  of  Manuel  Mazaro,  and  I  think  he  hates  him 
—  and  I  think  he  will  hurt  him  in  any  way  he  can 


98  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

—  and  I  know  he  will  even  try  to  kill  him.  Oh  !  my 
God !   ' 

She  struck  her  hands  together  above  her  head,  and 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Her  father  looked  upon 
her  with  such  sad  sternness  as  his  tender  nature  was 
capable  of.  He  laid  hold  of  one  of  her  arms  to  draw 
a  hand  from  the  face  whither  both  hands  had  gone. 

"You  know  something  else,"  he  said;  "3*011  know 
that  the  Major  loves  you,  or  you  think  so  :  is  it  not 
true?" 

She  dropped  both  hands,  and,  lifting  her  streaming 
eyes  that  had  nothing  to  hide  straight  to  his,  suddenly 
said : 

' '  I  would  give  worlds  to  think  so  !  "  and  sunk  upon 
the  floor. 

He  was  melted  and  convinced  in  one  instant. 

"Oh,  my  child,  my  child,"  he  cried,  tiying  to  lift 
her.  "Oh,  my  poor  little  Pauline,  your  papa  is  not 
angry.  Rise,  my  little  one ;  so ;  kiss  me ;  Heaven 
bless  thee ."  Pauline,  treasure,  what  shall  I  do  with 
thee  ?     Where  shall  I  hide  thee  ?  ' ' 

"You  have  my  counsel  already,  papa." 

"  Yes,  my  child,  and  you  were  right.  The  Cafe-  des 
Exiles  never  should  have  been  opened.  It  is  no  place 
for  you  ;  no  place  at  all." 

"  Let  us  leave  it,"  said  Pauline. 

"Ah!  Pauline,  I  would  close  it  to-morrow  if  I 
could,  but  now  it  is  too  late;  I  cannot." 

"  "Why?  "  asked  Pauline  pleadingly. 

She  had  cast  an  arm  about  his  neck.  Her  tears 
sparkled  with  a  smile. 


cafe~  des  exiles.  99 

"  My  daughter,  I  cannot  tell  you  ;  you  must  go  now 
to  bed  ;  good-night  —  or  good-morning  ;  God  keep 
you  !  " 

"Well,  then,  papa,"  she  said,  "have  no  fear;  you 
need  not  hide  me  ;  I  have  my  prayer-book,  and  my 
altar,  and  my  garden,  and  my  window ;  my  garden  is 
my  fenced  city,  and  my  window  my  watch-tower ;  do 
you  see? " 

"  Ah  !  Pauline,"  responded  the  father,  "  but  I  have 
been  letting  the  enemy  in  and  out  at  pleasure." 

"  Good-night,"  she  answered,  and  kissed  him  three 
times  on  either  cheek  ;  ' '  the  blessed  Virgin  will  take 
care  of  us  ;  good-night ;  he  never  said  those  things  ; 
not  he  ;  good-night." 

The  next  evening  Galahad  Shaughnessy  and  Manuel 
Mazaro  met  at  that  "very  different"  place,  the  Cafe 
des  Refugies.  There  was  much  free  talk  going  on 
about  Texan  annexation,  about  chances  of  war  with 
Mexico,  about  San  Domingan  affairs,  about  Cuba  and 
many  et-ceteras.  Galahad  was  in  his  usual  gay  mood. 
He  strode  about  among  a  mixed  company  of  Louisi- 
anais,  Cubans,  and  Americains,  keeping  them  in  a 
great  laugh  with  his  account  of  one  of  Ole  Bull's 
concerts,  and  how  he  had  there  extorted  an  invitation 
from  M.  and  Mme.  Devoti  to  attend  one  of  their 
famous  children's  fancy  dress  balls. 

"  Halloo  !  "  said  he  as  Mazaro  approached,  "  heer's 
the  etheerial  Angelica  herself.  Look-ut  heer,  sissy, 
why  ar'n't  ye  in  the  maternal  arms  of  the  Cafe  des 
Exiles?" 

Mazaro  smiled  amiably  and  sat  down.     A  moment 


100  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

after,  the  Irishman,  stepping  away  from  his  com- 
panions, stood  before  the  young  Cuban,  and  asked, 
with  a  quiet  business  air  : 

"D'ye  want  to  see  me,  Mazaro?  " 
-  The  Cuban  nodded,  and  they  went  aside.  Mazaro, 
in  a  few  quick  words,  looking  at  his  pretty  foot  the 
while,  told  the  other  on  no  account  to  go  near  the  Caf6 
des  Exiles,  as  there  were  two  men  hanging  about  there, 
evidently  watching  for  him,  and  — 

"  Wut's  the  use  o'  that?  "  asked  Galahad ;  "  I  say, 
wut's  the  use  o'  that?  " 

Major  Shaughnessy's  habit  of  repeating  part  of  his 
words  arose  from  another,  of  interrupting  any  person 
who  might  be  speaking. 

' '  They  must  know  —  I  say  they  must  know  that 
whenever  I'm  nowhurs  else  I'm  heer.  What  do  they 
want?  " 

Mazaro  made  a  gesture,  signifying  caution  and 
secrecy,  and  smiled,  as  if  to  say,  "You  ought  to 
know." 

"Aha!"  said  the  Irishman  softly.  "Why  don't 
they  come  here  ? ' ' 

"Z-afrai',"  said  Mazaro;  "  d'they  frai'  to  do 
an'teen  een  d-these-a  crowth." 

"  That's  so,"  said  the  Irishman  ;  "  I  say,  that's  so. 
If  I  don't  feel  very  much  like  go-un,  I'll  not  go ;  I 
say,  I'll  not  go.  We've  no  business  to-night,  eh, 
Mazaro?" 

"  No,  Seiior." 

A  second  evening  was  much  the  same,  Mazaro  re- 
peating his  warning.     But  when,  on  the  third  evening, 


CAFfi  DES   EXILES.  101 

the  Irishman  again  repeated  his  willingness  to  stay 
away  from  the  Caf6  des  Exiles  unless  he  should  feel 
strongly  impelled  to  go,  it  was  with  the  mental  reserva- 
tion that  he  did  feel  very  much  in  that  humor,  and, 
unknown  to  Mazaro,  should  thither  repair,  if  only  to 
see  whether  some  of  those  deep  old  fellows  were  not 
contriving  a  practical  joke. 

"  Mazaro,"  said  he,  "  I'm  go-un  around  the  caurnur 
a  bit ;  I  want  ye  to  wait  heer  till  I  come  back.  I  say 
I  want  ye  to  wait  heer  till  I  come  back  ;  I'll  be  gone 
about  three-quarters  of  an  hour." 

Mazaro  assented.  He  saw  with  satisfaction  the 
Irishman  start  in  a  direction  opposite  that  in  which 
lay  the  Caf6  des  Exiles,  tarried  fifteen  or  twenty  min- 
utes, and  then,  thinking  he  could  step  around  to  the 
Cafe  des  Exiles  and  return  before  the  expiration  of 
the  allotted  time,  hurried  out. 

Meanwhile  that  peaceful  habitation  sat  in  the  moon- 
light with  her  children  about  her  feet.  The  company  - 
outside  the  door  was  somewhat  thinner  than  common. 
M.  D'Hemecourt  was  not  among  them,  but  was  sitting 
in  the  room  behind  the  cafe.  The  long  table  which  the 
burial  society  used  at  their  meetings  extended  across 
the  apartment, , and  a  lamp  had  been  placed  upon  it. 
M.  D'Hemecourt  sat  by  the  lamp.  Opposite  him  was 
a  chair,  which  seemed  awaiting  an  expected  occupant. 
Beside  the  old  man  sat  Pauline.  They  were  talking  in 
cautious  undertones,  and  in  French. 

"  No,"  she  seemed  to  insist ;  "we  do  not  know  that  * 
he  refuses  to  come.     We  only  know  that  Manuel  says 
so." 


102  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

The  father  shook  his  head  sadly.  "When  has  he 
ever  staid  away  three  nights  together  before?"  he 
asked.  "No,  my  child;  it  is  intentional.  Manuel 
urges  him  to  come,  but  he  only  sends  poor  excuses." 

"  But,"  said  the  girl,  shading  her  face  from  the 
lamp  and  speaking  with  some  suddenness,  "  why  have 
you  not  sent  word  to  him  by  some  other  person  ?  ' ' 

M.  DTIemecourt  looked  up  at  his  daughter  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  smiled  at  his  own  simplicity. 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "Certainly;  and  that  is  what 
I  will  —  run  awa}7,  Pauline.  There  is  Manuel,  now, 
ahead  of  time  !  " 

A  step  was  heard  inside  the  cafe.  The  maiden, 
though  she  knew  the  step  was  not  Mazaro's,  rose  has- 
tily, opened  the  nearest  door,  and  disappeared.  She 
had  barely  closed  it  behind  her  when  Galahad  Shaugh- 
nessy  entered  the  apartment. 

M'Hemecourt  rose  up,  both  surprised  and  confused. 

"Good-evening,  Munsher  DTIimecourt,"  said  the 
Irishman.  "Munsher  DTIimecourt,  I  know  it's 
agains'  rules  —  I  say,  I  know  it's  against  rules  to  come 
in  here,  but  "  —  smiling,  —  "I  want  to  have  a  private 
wurd  with  ye.  I  say,  I  want  to  have  a  private  wurd 
with  ye." 

In  the  closet  of  bottles  the  maiden  smiled  triumph- 
antly. She  also  wiped  the  dew  from  her  forehead, 
for  the  place  was  very  close  and  warm. 

With  her  father  was  no  triumph.  In  him  sadness 
and  doubt  were  so  mingled  with  anger  that  he  dared 
not  lift  his  eyes,  but  gazed  at  the  knot  in  the  wood  of 
the  table,  which  looked  like   a  caterpillar  curled  up. 


CAFtf  DES  EXILE'S.  103 

Mazaro,  he  concluded,  had  really  asked  the  Major  to 
come.  * 

"Mazaro  tol'  you?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Irishman.  "  Mazaro  told  me 
I  was  watched,  and  asked"  — 

"  Madjor,"  unluckily  interrupted  the  old  man,  sud- 
denly looking  up  and  speaking  with  subdued  fervor, 
"  for  w'y  —  iv  Mazaro  tol'  you  —  for  w'y  you  din  come 
more  sooner?     Dad  is  one  'eavy  charge  again'  you." 

"Didn't  Mazaro  tell  ye  why  I  didn't  come?" 
asked  the  other,  beginning  to  be  puzzled  at  his  host's 
meaning. 

"Yez,"  replied  M.  D'Hemecourt,  "bud  one  brev 
zhenteman  should  not  be  afraid  of  "  — 

The  young  man  stopped  him  with  a  quiet  laugh. 
"  Munsher  D'Himecourt,"  said  he,  "I'm  nor  afraid 
of  any  two  men  living  —  I  say  I'm  nor  afraid  of  any 
two  men  living,  and  certainly  not  of  the  two  that's 
bean  a-watchin'  me  lately,  if  they're  the  two  I  think 
they  are." 

M.  D'Hemecourt  flushed  in  a  way  quite  incompre- 
hensible to  the  speaker,  who  nevertheless  continued  : 

"It  was  the  charges,"  he  said,  with  some  slyness 
in  his  smile.  "  They  are  heavy,  as  ye  say,  and  that's 
the  very  reason  — I  say  that's  the  very  reason  why  I 
staid  away,  ye  see,  eh?  I  say  that's  the  very  reason 
I  staid  away." 

Then,  indeed,  there  was  a  dew  for  the  maiden  to 
wipe  from  her  brow,  unconscious  that  every  word  that 
was  being  said  bore  a  different  significance  in  the  mind 
of  each  of  the  three.     The  old  man  was  agitated. 


104  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

"Bud,  sir,"  he  began,  shaking  his  head  and  lifting 
his  hand. 

"  Bless  yer  soul,  Munsher  D'Hhnecourt,"  inter- 
rupted the  Irishman.  "  Wut's  the  use  o' grapplin' 
two  cut-throats,  when  "  — 

"  Madjor  Shaughnessy  ! "  cried  M.  D'Hemecourt, 
losing  all  self-control.  "  H-I  am  nod  a  cud-troad, 
Madjor  Shaughness}T,  h-an  I  'ave  a  r-r-righd  to  wdage 
you." 

The  Major  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  What  d'}-e  mean?  "  he  asked  vacantly,  and  then  : 
"  Look-ut  here,  Munsher  D'Hhnecourt,  one  of  uz  is 
crazy.     I  say  one"  — 

"  No,  sar-r-r  !  "  cried  the  other,  rising  and  clenching 
his  trembling  fist.  "H-I  am  nod  crezzy.  I 'ave  de 
righd  to  wadge  dad  man  wad  mague  rirnark  aboud  me 
dotter." 

"I  never  did  no  such  a  thing." 

"You  did." 

"I  never  did  no  such  a  thing." 

"  Bud  you  'ave  jus  hacknowledge' — " 

"  I  never  did  no  such  a  tiling,  I  tell  ye,  and  the 
man  that's  told  ye  so  is  a  liur." 

"  Ah-h-h-h  !  "  said  the  old  man,  wagging  his  finger. 
"  Ah-h-h-h  !     You  call  Manuel  Mazaro  one  liar?  " 

The  Irishman  laughed  out. 

"Well,  I  should  say  so!" 

He  motioned  the  old  man  into  his  chair,  and  both 
sat  down  again. 

"  Why,  Munsher  D'Hhnecourt,  Mazaro's  been 
keepin'    me  away  from   heer  with  a  yarn  about  two 


CA¥lt  DES  EXILES.  105 

Spaniards  watchin'  for  me.  That's  what  I  came  in  to 
ask  ye  about.  My  dear  sur,  do  ye  s'pose  I  wud  talk 
about  the  goddess  —  I  mean,  yer  daughter  —  to  the 
likes  o'  Mazaro  —  I  say  to  the  likes  o'  Mazaro?" 

To  say  the  old  man  was  at  sea  would  be  too  feeble 
an  expression  —  he  was  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  with 
a  hurricane  of  doubts  and  fears  whirling  around  him. 
Somebody  had  told  a  lie,  and  he,  having  struck  upon 
its  sunken  surface,  was  dazed  and  stunned.  He 
opened  his  lips  to  say  he  knew  not  what,  when  his 
ear  caught  the  voice  of  Manuel  Mazaro,  replying  to 
the  greeting  of  some  of  his  comrades  outside  the  front 
door. 

"He  is  comin' !  "  cried  the  old  man.  "  Mague 
you'sev  hide,  Madjor ;  do  not  led  'im  kedge  you, 
Mon  Dieu!  " 

The  Irishman  smiled. 

"The  little  yellow  wretch!"  said  he  quietly,  his 
blue  eyes  dancing.     "  I'm  goin'  to  catch  him." 

A  certain  hidden  hearer  instantly  made  up  her  mind 
to  rush  out  between  the  two  young  men  and  be  a 
heroine. 

"  Non,  non!"  exclaimed  M.  D'Hemecourt  excitedly. 
"Nod  in  de  Cafe  des  Exiles  —  nod  now,  Madjor. 
Go  in  dad  door,  hif  you  pliz,  Madjor.  You  will  heer 
'im  w'at  he  'ave  to  say.  Mague  you'sev  de  troub'. 
Nod  dad  door  —  diz  one." 

The  Major  laughed  again  and  started  toward  the 
door  indicated,  but  in  an  instant  stopped. 

"I  can't  go  in  theyre,"  he  said.  "That's  yer 
daughter's  room." 


106  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

"  Oui,  oui,  metis  /"  cried  the  other  softly,  but 
Mazaro's  step  was  near. 

"  I'll  just  slip  in  heer,"  and  the  amused  Shaugh- 
nessy  tripped  lightly  to  the  closet  door,  drew  it  open 
in  spite  of  a  momentary  resistance  from  within  which 
he  had  no  time  to  notice,  stepped  into  a  small  recess 
full  of  shelves  and  bottles,  shut  the  door,  and  stood 
face  to  face  —  the  broad  moonlight  shining  upon  her 
through  a  small,  high-grated  opening  on  one  side  — 
with  Pauline.  At  the  same  instant  the  voice  of  the 
young  Cuban  sounded  in  the  room. 

Pauline  was  in  a  great  tremor.  She  made  as  if  she 
would  have  opened  the  door  and  fled,  but  the  Irishman 
gave  a  gesture  of  earnest  protest  and  re-assurance. 
The  re-opened  door  might  make  the  back  parlor  of  the 
Cafe  des  Exiles  a  scene  of  blood.  Thinking  of  this, 
what  could  she  do?     She  staid. 

"You  goth  a  heap-a  thro-vle,  Senor,"  said  Manuel 
Mazaro,  taking  the  seat  so  lately  vacated.  He  had 
patted  M.  D'Hemecourt  tenderly  on  the  back  and  the 
old  gentleman  had  flinched ;  hence  the  remark,  to 
which  there  was  no  reply. 

"  Was  a  bee  crowth  a'  the  Cafe  the  Refugies,"  con- 
tinued the  young  man. 

"  Bud,  w'ere  dad  Madjor  Shaughnessy  ?  "  demanded 
M.  D'Hemecourt,  with  the  little  sternness  he  could 
command. 

"  Mayor  Shaughness'  — yez-a  ;  was  there  ;  boat-a," 
with  a  disparaging  smile  and  shake  of  the  head,  "  he 
woon-a  come-a  to  you,  Senor,  oh!  no." 

The  old  man  smiled  bitterly. 


CAFfi  BES  EXILE'S.  107 

litfon?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no,  Senor!"  Mazaro  drew  his  chair  closer. 
"Senor;"  he  paused,  —  "  eez  a- vary  bath-a  fore-a 
you  thaughter,  eh?  " 

"Wat?"  asked  the  host,  snapping  like  a  tor- 
mented dog. 

"  D-theze  talkin'  'bou',"  answered  the  young  man; 
"  d-theze  coffee-howces  noth  a  goo'  plaze-a  fore  hore, 
eh?" 

The  Irishman  and  the  maiden  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes  an  instant,  as  people  will  do  when  listening ;  but 
Pauline's  immediately  fell,  and  when  Mazaro's  words 
were  understood,  her  blushes  became  visible  even  by 
moonlight. 

"  He's  r- right !  "  emphatically  whispered  Galahad. 

She  attempted  to  draw  back  a  step,  but  found  her- 
self against  the  shelves.  M.  D'Hemecourt  had  not 
answered.     Mazaro  spoke  again. 

"  Boat-a  you  canno'  help-a,  eh?  I  know,  'out-a  she 
gettin'  marry,  eh?" 

Pauline  trembled.  Her  father  summoned  all  his 
force  and  rose  as  if  to  ask  his  questioner  to  leave 
him ;  but  the  handsome  Cuban  motioned  him  down 
with  a  gesture  that  seemed  to  beg  for  only  a  moment 
more. 

"  Senor,  if  a-was  one  man  whath  lo-va  you'  thaugh- 
ter, all  is  possiblee  to  lo-va." 

Pauline,  nervously  braiding  some  bits  of  wire  which 
she  had  unconsciously  taken  from  a  shelf,  glanced  up 
■< — against  her  will,  — into  the  eyes  of  Galahad.  They 
were  looking  so  steadily  down  upon  her  that  with  a 


108  OLD    CREOLE  BATS. 

great  leap  of  the  heart  for  joy  she  closed  her  own  and 
half  turned  away.     But  Mazaro  had  not  ceased. 

"All  is  possiblee  to  lo-va,  Senor,  you  shouth-a  let 
marry  hore  an'  tak'n  'way  frone  d'these  plaze,  Senor." 

"Manuel  Mazaro,"  said  M.  D'Hernecourt,  again 
risiug,  "you  'ave  say  enough." 

"No,  no,  Senor;  no,  no;  I  want  tell-a  you  —  is 
a-one  man  —  whath  lo-va  you'  thaughter  ;  an'  I  knowce 
him  !  " 

Was  there  no  cause  for  quarrel,  after  all?  Could 
it  be  that  Mazaro  was  about  to  speak  for  Galahad? 
The  old  man  asked  in  his  simplicity : 

"  Madjor  Shaughnessy  ?  " 

Mazaro  smiled  mockingly. 

"  Mayor  Shaughness',"  he  said;  "oh,  no;  not 
Mayor  Shaughness'  !  " 

Pauline  could  stay  no  longer ;  escape  she  must, 
though  it  be  in  Manuel  Mazaro's  very  face.  Turning 
again  and  looking  up  into  Galahad's  face  in  a  great 
fright,  she  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but  — 

"  Mayor  Shaughness',"  continued  the  Cuban;  "  he 
nev'r-a  lo-va  you'  thaughter." 

Galahad  was  putting  the  maiden  back  from  the  door 
with  his  hand. 

"  Pauline,"  he  said,  "  it's  a  lie  !  " 

"  An',  Senor,"  pursued  the  Cuban,  "  if  a  was  possi- 
blee you'  thaughter  to  lo-va  heem,  a-wouth-a  be  worse- 
a  kine  in  worlt ;  but,  Senor,  I"  — 

M.  D'Hemecourt  made  a  majestic  sign  for  silence. 
He  had  resumed  his  chair,  but  he  rose  up  once  more, 
took  the  Cuban's  hat  from  the  table  and  tendered  it  to 
him. 


CAFE'  DES  EXILE'S.  109 

"  Manuel  Mazaro,  you  'ave  "  — 

"  Senor,  I  goin'  tell  you  "  — 

"  Manuel  Mazaro,  you  "  — 

"Boat-a,  Sefior"  — 

"  Bud,  Manuel  Maz  "  — 

"  Senor,  escuse-a  me  "  — 

' '  Huzh ! ' '  cried  the  old  man.  ' '  Manuel  Mazaro,  you 
'ave  desceive'  me!     You  'ave  mocque  me,  Manu"  — 

"  Senor,"  cried  Mazaro,  "  I  swear-ato  you  that  all-a 
what  I  sayin'  ees-a  "  — 

He  stopped  aghast.  Galahad  and  Pauline  stood 
before  him. 

"  Is  what?"  asked  the  blue-eyed  man,  with  a  look 
of  quiet  delight  on  his  face,  such  as  Mazaro  instantly 
remembered  to  have  seen  on  it  one  night  when  Gala- 
had was  being  shot  at  in  the  Sucking  Calf  Restaurant 
in  St.  Peter  Street. 

The  table  was  between  them,  but  Mazaro's  hand 
went  upward  toward  the  back  of  his  coat-collar. 

"Ah,  ah!"  cried  the  Irishman,  shaking  his  head 
with  a  broader  smile  and  thrusting  his  hand  threaten- 
ingly into  his  breast;  "don't  ye  do  that!  just  finish 
yer  speech." 

"  Was-a  notthin',"  said  the  Cuban,  trying  to  smile 
back. 

"  Yer  a  liur,"  said  Galahad. 

"No,"  said  Mazaro,  still  endeavoring  to  smile 
through  his  agony  ;  "  z-was  on'y  tellin'  Senor  D'Heme- 
court  someteen  z-was  t-thrue." 

"  And  I  tell  ye,"  said  Galahad,  "  ye'r  a  liur,  and  to 
be  so  kind  an'  get  yersel'  \o  the  front  stoop,  as  I'm 
desiruz  o'  kickin'  ye  before  the  crowd." 


110  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

"  Madjor  !  "  cried  D'Hemecourt — 

"Go,"  said  Galahad,  advancing  a  step  toward  the 
Cuban. 

Had  Manuel  Mazaro  wished  to  personate  the  prince 
of  darkness,  his  beautiful  face  had  the  correct  expres- 
sion for  it.  He  slowly  turned,  opened  the  door  into  the 
cafe,  sent  one  glowering  look  behind,  and  disappeared. 

Pauline  laid  her  hand  upon  her  lover's  arm. 

"  Madjor,"  began  her  father. 

"Oh,  Madjor  and  Madjor,"  said  the  Irishman; 
"  Munsher  D'Hemecourt,  just  say  'Madjor,  heer's  a 
gude  wife  fur  ye,'  and  I'll  let  the  little  serpent  go." 

Thereupon,  sure  enough,  both  M.  D'Hemecourt  and 
his  daughter,  rushing  together,  did  what  I  have  been 
hoping  all  along,  for  the  reader's  sake,  the}"  would  have 
dispensed  with ;  they  burst  into  tears  ;  whereupon  the 
Major,  with  his  Irish  appreciation  of  the  ludicrous, 
turned  away  to  hide  his  smirk  and  began  good-hu- 
moredly  to  scratch  himself  first  on  the  temple  and  then 
on  the  thigh. 

Mazaro  passed  silently  through  the  group  about  the 
door-steps,  and  not  many  minutes  afterward,  Galahad 
Shaughnessy,  having  taken  a  place  among  the  exiles, 
rose  with  the  remark  that  the  old  gentleman  would 
doubtless  be  willing  to  tell  them  good-night.  Good- 
night was  accordingly  said,  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  closed 
her  windows,  then  her  doors,  winked  a  moment  or  two 
through  the  cracks  in  the  shutters  and  then  went  fast 
asleep. 

The  Mexican  physician,  at  Galahad's  request,  told 
Mazaro  that  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  burial  society 


CAFfi  BES  EXILE'S.  Ill 

he  might  and  must  occupy  his  accustomed  seat  without 
fear  of  molestation  ;  and  he  did  so. 

The  meeting  took  place  some  seven  days  after  the 
affair  in  the  back  parlor,  and  on  the  same  ground. 
Business  being  finished,  Galahad,  who  presided,  stood 
up,  looking,  in  his  white  duck  suit  among  his  darkly- 
clad  companions,  like  a  white  sheep  among  black  ones, 
and  begged  leave  to  order  "  dlasses  "  from  the  front 
room.  I  say  among  black  sheep ;  yet,  I  suppose, 
than  that  double  row  of  languid,  effeminate  faces, 
one  would  have  been  taxed  to  find  a  more  harmless- 
looking  company.  The  glasses  were  brought  and 
filled. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Galahad,  "comrades,  this  may 
be  the  last  time  we  ever  meet  together  an  unbroken 
body." 

Martinez  of  San  Domingo,  he  of  the  horrible  expe- 
rience, nodded  with  a  lurking  smile,  curled  a  leg  under 
him  and  clasped  his  fingers  behind  his  head. 

"Who  knows,"  continued  the  speaker,  "but  Seiior 
Benito,  though  strong  and  sound  and  har'ly  thirty- 
seven  " —  here  all  smiled — "may  be  taken  ill  to- 
morrow ?  " 

Martinez  smiled  across  to  the  tall,  gray  Benito  on 
Galahad's  left,  and  he,  in  turn,  smilingly  showed  to 
the  company  a  thin,  white  line  of  teeth  between  his 
moustachios  like  distant  reefs. 

"  Who  knows,"  the  young  Irishman  proceeded  to 
inquire,  "I  say,  who  knows  but  Pedro,  theyre,  may 
be  struck  wid  a  fever  ? ' ' 

Pedro,  a  short,  compact  man  of  thoroughly  mixed 


112  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

blood,  and  with  an  eyebrow  cut  away,  whose  surname 
no  one  knew,  smiled  his  acknowledgments. 

"Who  knows?  "  resumed  Galahad,  when  those  who 
understood  English  had  explained  in  Spanish  to  those 
who  did  not,  ' '  but  they  may  soon  need  the  services 
not  only  of  our  good  doctor  heer,  but  of  our  society ; 
and  that  Fernandez  and  Benigno,  and  Gonzalez  and 
Dominguez,  may  not  be  chosen  to  see,  on  that  very 
schooner  lying  at  the  Picayune  Tier  just  now,  their 
beloved  remains  and  so  forth  safely  delivered  into  the 
hands  and  lands  of  their  people.  I  say,  who  knows 
bur  it  may  be  so  !  " 

The  company  bowed  graciously  as  who  should  say, 
"Well-turned  phrases,  Senor  —  well-turned." 

"And  amigos,  if  so  be  that  such  is  their  approoching 
fate,  I  will  say  :  " 

He  lifted  his  glass,  and  the  rest  did  the  same. 

"  I  say,  I  will  say  to  them,  Creoles,  countrymen, 
and  lovers,  boun  voyadge  an'  good  luck  to  ye's." 

For  several  moments  there  was  much  translating, 
bowing,  and  murmured  acknowledgments ;  Mazaro 
said:  "  Bueno!"  and  all  around  among  the  long 
double  rank  of  moustachioed  lips  amiable  teeth  were 
gleamiug,  some  white,  some  brown,  some  yellow,  like 
bones  in  the  grass. 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,"  Galahad  recommenced, 
"  fellow-exiles,  once  more.  Munsher  D'Himecourt,  it 
was  yer  practice,  until  lately,  to  reward  a  good  talker 
with  a  dlass  from  the  hands  o'  yer  daughter."  (Si, 
si!)  "I'm  bur  a  poor  speaker."  (Si,  si,  SeTior,  z-a- 
Jine-a  Jem' -a  can  be;  si!)     "However,  I'll  ask  ye, 


CAFti  DES  EXILES.  113 

not  knowun  bur  it  may  be  the  last  time  we  all  meet 
together,  if  ye  will  not  let  the  goddess  of  the  Cafe  des 
Exiles  grace  our  company  with  her  presence  for  just 
about  one  minute?"     (Yez-a,  Senor;  si;  yez-a;  out.) 

Every  head  was  turned  toward  the  old  man,  nodding 
the  echoed  request. 

"  Ye  see,  friends,"  said  Galahad  in  a  true  Irish 
whisper,  as  M.  D'Hemecourt  left  the  apartment,  "  her 
poseetion  has  been  a-growin'  more  and  more  embar- 
rassin'  daily,  and  the  operaytions  of  our  society  were 
likely  to  make  it  wurse  in  the  future  ;  wherefore  I  have 
lately  taken  steps  —  I  say  I  tuke  steps  this  morn  to 
relieve  the  old  gentleman's  distresses  and  his  daugh- 
ter's"— 

He  paused.  M.  D'Hemecourt  entered  with  Pauline, 
and  the  exiles  all  rose  up.  Ah!  —  but  why  say  again 
she  was  lovely  ? 

Galahad  stepped  forward  to  meet  her,  took  her  hand, 
led  her  to  the  head  of  the  board,  and  turning  to  the 
company,  said : 

"Friends  and  fellow-patriots,  Misthress  Shaugh- 
nessy." 

There  was  no  outburst  of  astonishment  —  only  the 
same  old  bowing,  smiling,  and  murmuring  of  compli- 
ment. Galahad  turned  with  a  puzzled  look  to  M. 
D'Hemecourt,  and  guessed  the  truth.  In  the  joy  of 
an  old  man's  heart  he  had  already  that  afternoon 
told  the  truth  to  each  and  every  man  separately,  as  a 
secret  too  deep  for  them  to  reveal,  but  too  sweet  for 
him  to  keep.  The  Major  and  Pauline  were  man  and 
wife. 


114  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

The  last  laugh  that  wasj  ever  heard  in  the  Cafe-  des 
Exiles  sounded  softly  through  the  room. 

"Lads,"  said  the  Irishman.  "Fill  yer  dlasses. 
Here's  to  the  Cafe"  des  Exiles,  God  bless  her  !  " 

And  the  meeting  slowly  adjourned. 

Two  days  later,  signs  and  rumors  of  sickness  began 
to  find  place  about  the  Cafe"  des  R6fugi6s,  and  the 
Mexican  physician  made  three  calls  in  one  day.  It 
was  said  by  the  people  around  that  the  tall  Cuban 
gentleman  named  Benito  was  very  sick  in  one  of  the 
back  rooms.  A  similar  frequency  of  the  same  physi- 
cian's calls  was  noticed  about  the  Caf6  des  Exiles. 

"  The  man  with  one  eyebrow,"  said  the  neighbors, 
"is  sick.  Pauline  left  the  house  yesterday  to  make 
room  for  him." 

"  Ah !  is  it  possible  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  is  really  true  ;  she  and  her  husband.  She 
took  her  mocking-bird  with  her ;  he  carried  it ;  he 
came  back  alone." 

On  the  next  afternoon  the  children  about  the  Cafe 
des  Refugi6s  enjoyed  the  spectacle  of  the  invalid 
Cuban  moved  on  a  trestle  to  the  Cafe  des  Exiles, 
although  he  did  not  look  so  deathly  sick  as  they  could 
have  liked  to  see  him,  and  on  the  fourth  morning  the 
doors  of  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  remained  closed.  A 
black-bordered  funeral  notice,  veiled  with  crape,  an- 
nounced that  the  great  Caller-home  of  exiles  had 
served  his  summons  upon  Don  Pedro  Hernandez  (sur- 
name borrowed  for  the  occasion),  and  Don  Carlos 
Mendez  y  Benito. 

The  hour  for  the  funeral  was  fixed  at  four  p.m.     It 


CAFti  BBS  EXILES.  115 

never  took  place.  Down  at  the  Picayune  Tier  on  the 
river  bank  there  was,  about  two  o'clock  that  same  day, 
a  slight  commotion,  and  those  who  stood  aimlessly 
about  a  small,  neat  schooner,  said  she  was  "  seized." 
At  four  there  suddenly  appeared  before  the  Cafe"  des 
Exiles  a  squad  of  men  with  silver  crescents  on  their 
breasts  —  police  officers.  The  old  cottage  sat  silent 
with  closed  doors,  the  crape  hanging  heavily  over  the 
funeral  notice  like  a  widow's  veil,  the  little  unseen 
garden  sending  up  odors  from  its  hidden  censers,  and 
the  old  weeping-willow  bending  over  all. 

"  Nobody  here?  "  asks  the  leader. 

The  crowd  which  has  gathered  stares  without  an- 
swering. 

As  quietly  and  peaceably  as  possible  the  officers  pry 
open  the  door.  They  enter,  and  the  crowd  pushes  in 
after.  There  are  the  two  coffins,  looking  very  heavy 
and  solid,  tying  in  state  but  unguarded. 

The  crowd  draws  a  breath  of  astonishment.  "  Are 
they  going  to  wrench  the  tops  off  with  hatchet  and 
chisel?" 

Rap,  rap,  rap ;  wrench,  rap,  wrench.  Ah !  the 
cases  come  open. 

"Well  kept?  "  asks  the  leader  flippantly. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  is  the  reply.     And  then  all  laugh. 

One  of  the  lookers-on  pushes  up  and  gets  a  glimpse 
within. 

"  What  is  it?  "  ask  the  other  idlers. 

He  tells  one  quietly. 

"What  did  he  say?"  ask  the  rest,  one  of  an- 
other. 


116  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

"  He  says  they  are  not  dead  men,  but  new  mus- 
kets " — 

"  Here,  clear  out !  "  cries  an  officer,  and  the  loiterers 
fall  back  and  by  and  by  straggle  off. 

The  exiles?  What  became  of  them,  do  you  ask? 
Why,  nothing  ;  the}7  were  not  troubled,  but  they  never 
all  came  together  again.  Said  a  chief-of-police  to 
Major  Shaughness}r  years  afterward  : 

"  Major,  there  was  only  one  thing  that  kept  your 
expedition  from  succeeding  —  you  were  too  sly  about 
it.  Had  3'ou  come  out  flat  and  said  what  you  were 
doing,  we'd  never  a-said  a  word  to  you.  But  that 
little  fellow  gave  us  the  wink,  and  then  we  had  to  stop 
you." 

And  was  no  one  punished?  Alas  !  one  was.  Poor, 
pretty,  curly-headed  traitorous  Mazaro  !  He  was  drawn 
out  of  Carondelet  Canal  —  cold,  dead  !  And  when  his 
wounds  were  counted — they  were  just  the  number  of 
the  Cafe  des  Exiles'  children,  less  Galahad.  But  the 
mother  —  that  is,  the  old  cafe  —  did  not  see  it ;  she  had 
gone  up  the  night  before  in  a  chariot  of  fire. 

In  the  files  of  the  old  "  Picayune  "  and  "Price-Cur- 
rent "  of  1837  may  be  seen  the  mention  of  Galahad 
Shaughnessy  among  the  merchants  —  ' '  our  enterpris- 
ing and  accomplished  fellow-townsman,"  and  all  that. 
But  old  M.  D'Hemecourt's  name  is  cut  in  marble,  and 
his  citizenship  is  in  "  a  city  whose  maker  and  builder 
is  God." 

Only  yesterday  I  dined  with  the  Shaughnessys  — 
fine  old  couple  and  handsome.  Their  children  sat 
about  them  and  entertained  me  most  pleasantly.     But 


caf£  des  exiles.  117 

there  isn't  one  can  tell  a  tale  as  their  father  can  — 
'twas  he  told  me  this  one,  though  here  and  there  my 
enthusiasm  may  have  taken  liberties.  He  knows  the 
history  of  every  old  house  in  the  French  Quarter  ;  or, 
if  he  happens  not  to  know  a  true  one,  he  can  make  one 
up  as  he  goes  along. 


Belles   Demoiselles 
Plantation. 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION:      123 

under  the  levee,  Belles  Demoiselles  Mansion,  with  its 
broad  veranda  and  red  painted  cypress  roof,  peering 
over  the  embankment,  like  a  bird  in  the  nest,  half  hid 
by  the  avenue  of  willows  which  one  of  the  depart- 
ed De  Charleus,  —  he  that  married  a  Marot,  —  had 
planted  on  the  levee's  crown. 

The  house  stood  unusually  near  the  river,  facing 
eastward,  and  standing  four-square,  with  an  immense 
veranda  about  its  sides,  and  a  flight  of  steps  in  front 
spreading  broadly  downward,  as  we  open  arms  to  a 
child.  From  the  veranda  nine  miles  of  river  were 
seen ;  and  in  their  compass,  near  at  hand,  the  shady 
garden  full  of  rare  and  beautiful  flowers  ;  farther  away 
broad  fields  of  cane  and  rice,  and  the  distant  quarters 
of  the  slaves,  and  on  the  horizon  everywhere  a  dark 
belt  of  C3'press  forest. 

The  master  was  old  Colonel  De  Charleu,  — Jean  Al- 
bert Henri  Joseph  De  Charleu-Marot,  and  "  Colonel  " 
by  the  grace  of  the  first  American  governor.  Mon- 
sieur, —  he  would  not  speak  to  any  one  who  called 
him  "Colonel,"  —  was  a  hoary-headed  patriarch. 
His  step  was  firm,  his  form  erect,  his  intellect  strong 
and  clear,  his  countenance  classic,  serene,  dignified, 
commanding,  his  manners  courtly,  his  voice  musical, 
—  fascinating.  He  had  had  his  vices,  —  all  his  life; 
but  had  borne  them,  as  his  race  do,  with  a  serenity  of 
conscience  and  a  cleanness  of  mouth  that  left  no  out- 
ward blemish  on  the  surface  of  the  gentleman.  He 
had  gambled  in  Royal  Street,  drank  hard  in  Orleans 
Street,  run  his  adversary  through  in  the  duelling- 
ground   at   Slaughter-house    Point,    and   danced   and 


124  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

quarrelled  at  the  St.  Philippe-street-theatre  quadroon 
balls.  Even  now,  with  all  his  courtesy  aud  bounty, 
and  a  hospitality  which  seemed  to  be  entertaining 
angels,  he  was  bitter-proud  and  peuurious,  and  deep 
down  in  his  hard-finished  heart  loved  nothing  but  him- 
self, his  name,  and  his  motherless  children.  But 
these  !  —  their  ravishing  beauty  was  all  but  excuse 
enough  for  the  unbounded  idolatry  of  their  father. 
Against  these  seven  goddesses  he  never  rebelled. 
Had  they  even  required  him  to  defraud  old  De 
Carlos  — 

I  can  hardly  say. 

Old  De  Carlos  was  his  extremely  distant  relative  on 
the  Choctaw  side.  With  this  single  exception,  the 
narrow  thread-like  line  of  descent  from  the  Indian 
wife,  diminished  to  a  mere  strand  by  injudicious  alli- 
ances, and  deaths  in  the  gutters  of  old  New  Orleans, 
was  extinct.  The  name,  by  Spanish  contact,  had 
become  De  Carlos  ;  but  this  one  surviving  bearer  of  it 
was  known  to  all,  and  known  only,  as  Injin  Charlie. 

One  thing  I  never  knew  a  Creole  to  do.  He  will 
not  utterly  go  back  on  the  ties  of  blood,  no  matter 
what  sort  of  knots  those  ties  may  be.  For  one  rea- 
son, he  is  never  ashamed  of  his  or  his  father's  sins ; 
and  for  another,  —  he  will  tell  you  —  he  is  "all 
heart!" 

So  the  different  heirs  of  the  De  Charleu  estate  had 
always  strictly  regarded  the  rights  and  interests  of  the 
De  Carloses,  especially  thefr  ownership  of  a  block  of 
dilapidated  buildings  in  a  part  of  the  cj,ty,  which  had 
once  been  very  poor  property,  but  was  beginning  to  be 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      125 

valuable.  This  block  had  much  more  than  maintained 
the  last  De  Carlos  through  a  long  and  lazy  lifetime, 
and,  as  his  household  consisted  only  of  himself,  and 
an  aged  and  crippled  negress,  the  inference  was  irre- 
sistible that  he  "  had  money."  Old  Charlie,  though 
by  alias  an  "  Injin,"  was  plainly  a  dark  white  man, 
about  as  old  as  Colonel  De  Charleu,  sunk  in  the  bliss 
of  deep  ignorance,  shrewd,  deaf,  and,  by  repute  at 
least,  unmerciful. 

The  Colonel  and  he  always  conversed  in  English. 
This  rare  accomplishment,  which  the  former  had 
learned  from  his  Scotch  wife,  —  the  latter  from  up- 
river  traders,  —  they  found  an  admirable  medium  of 
communication,  answering,  better  than  French  could,  a 
similar  purpose  to  that  of  the  stick  which  we  fasten  to 
the  bit  of  one  horse  and  breast-gear  of  another,  where- 
by each  keeps  his  distance.  Once  in  a  while,  too,  by 
way  of  jest,  English  found  its  way  among  the  ladies 
of  Belles  Demoiselles,  always  signifying  that  their 
sire  was  about  to  have  business  with  old  Charlie. 

Now  a  long-standing  wish  to  buy  out  Charlie  troubled 
the  Colonel.  He  had  no  desire  to  oust  him  unfairly ; 
he  was  proud  of  being  always  fair  ;  yet  he  did  long  to 
engross  the  whole  estate  under  one  title.  Out  of  his 
luxurious  idleness  he  had  conceived  this  desire,  and 
thought  little  of  so  slight  an  obstacle  as  being  already 
somewhat  in  debt  to  old  Charlie  for  money  borrowed, 
and  for  which  Belles  Demoiselles  was,  of  course,  good, 
ten  times  over.  Lots,  buildings,  rents,  all,  might  as  well 
be  his,  he  thought,  to  give,  keep,  or  destroy.  "Had 
he  but  the  old  man's  heritage.     Ah !  he  might  bring 


126  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

that  into  existence  which  his  belles  demoiselles  had 
been  begging  for,  '  since  many  years  ; '  a  home,  —  and 
such  a  home,  — in  the  gay  city.  Here  he  should  tear 
down  this  row  of  cottages,  and  make  his  garden  wall ; 
there  that  long  rope-walk  should  give  place  to  vine- 
covered  arbors  ;  the  bakery  yonder  should  make  way 
for  a  costly  conservatory ;  that  wine  warehouse  should 
come  down,  and  the  mansion  go  up.  It  should  be  the 
finest  in  the  State.  Men  should  never  pass  it,  but  they 
should  say  —  '  the  palace  of  the  De  Charleus  ;  a  family 
of  grand  descent,  a  people  of  elegance  and  bount}',  a 
line  as  old  as  France,  a  fine  old  man,  and  seven  daugh- 
ters as  beautiful  as  happy ;  whoever  dare  attempt  to 
marry  there  must  leave  his  own  name  behind  him ! ' 

"The  house  should  be  of  stones  fitly  set,  brought 
down  in  ships  from  the  land  of  '  les  Yankees,'  and  it 
should  have  an  airy  belvedere,  with  a  gilded  image  tip- 
toeing and  shining  on  its  peak,  and  from  it  you  should 
see,  far  across  the  gleaming  folds  of  the  river,  the  red 
roof  of  Belles  Demoiselles,  the  country-seat.  At  the 
big  stone  gate  there  should  be  a  porter's  lodge,  and  it 
should  be  a  privilege  even  to  see  the  ground." 

Truly  they  were  a  family  fine  enough,  and  fancy- 
free  enough  to  have  fine  wishes,  yet  happy  enough 
wheie  they  were,  to  have  had  no  wish  but  to  live  there 
always. 

To  those,  who,  by  whatever  fortune,  wandered  into 
the  garden  of  Belles  Demoiselles  some  summer  after- 
noon as  the  sky  was  reddening  towards  evening,  it  was 
lovely  to  see  the  family  gathered  out  upon  the  tiled 
pavement  at  the  foot  of  the  broad  front  steps,  gayly 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      127 

chatting  and  jesting,  with  that  ripple  of  laughter  that 
comes  so  pleasingly  from  a  bevy  of  girls.  The  father 
would  be  found  seated  in  their  midst,  the  centre  of 
attention  and  compliment,  witness,  arbiter,  umpire, 
critic,  by  his  beautiful  children's  unanimous  appoint- 
ment, but  the  single  vassal,  too,  of  seven  absolute 
sovereigns. 

Now  they  would  draw  their  chairs  near  together  in 
eager  discussion  of  some  new  step  in  the  dance,  or  the 
adjustment  of  some  rich  adornment.  Now  they  would 
start  about  him  with  excited  comments  to  see  the 
eldest  fix  a  bunch  of  violets  in  his  button-hole.  Now 
the  twins  would  move  down  a  walk  after  some  unusual 
flower,  and  be  greeted  on  their  return  with  the  high 
pitched  notes  of  delighted  feminine  surprise. 

As  evening  came  on  they  would  draw  more  quietly 
about  their  paternal  centre.  Often  their  chairs  were 
forsaken,  and  they  grouped  themselves  on  the  lower 
steps,  one  above  another,  and  surrendered  themselves 
to  the  tender  influences  of  the  approaching  night.  At 
such  an  hour  the  passer  on  the  river,  already  attracted 
by  the  dark  figures  of  the  broad-roofed  mansion,  and 
its  woody  garden  standing  against  the  glowing  sunset, 
would  hear  the  voices  of  the  hidden  group  rise  from 
the  spot  in  the  soft  harmonies  of  an  evening  song ; 
swelling  clearer  and  clearer  as  the  thrill  of  music 
warmed  them  into  feeling,  and  presently  joined  by  the 
deeper  tones  of  the  father's  voice ;  then,  as  the  day- 
light passed  quite  away,  all  would  be  still,  and  he 
would  know  that  the  beautiful  home  had  gathered  its 
nestlings  under  its  wings. 


128  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

And  yet,  for  mere  vagary,  it  pleased  them  not  to  be 
pleased. 

"Arti!"  called  one  sister  to  another  in  the  broad 
hall,  one  morning, — mock  amazement  in  her  distended 
eyes,  —  "something  is  goin'  to  took  place  !  " 

"  Comm-e-n-t  ?''  —  long-drawn  perplexity. 

"  Papa  is  goin'  to  town  !  " 

The  news  passed  up  stairs. 

"  Inno  !  " — one  to  another  meeting  in  a  doorway, 
—  "  something  is  goin'  to  took  place  !  " 

"  Qu' est-ce-que  c'est!  "  —  vain  attempt  at  gruffness. 

"  Papa  is  goin'  to  town  !  " 

The  unusual  tidings  were  true.  It  was  afternoon  of 
the  same  day  that  the  Colonel  tossed  his  horse's  bridle 
to  his  groom,  and  stepped  up  to  old  Charlie,  who  was 
sitting  on  his  bench  under  a  China-tree,  his  head, 
as  was  his  fashion,  bound  in  a  Madras  handkerchief. 
The  "old  man"  was  plainly  under  the  effect  of  spirits, 
and  smiled  a  deferential  salutation  without  trusting 
himself  to  his  feet. 

"  Eh,  well  Charlie  !  "  —  the  Colonel  raised  his  voice 
to  suit  his  kinsman's  deafness,  —  "  how  is  those  times 
with  my  friend  Charlie  ?  ' ' 

"  Eh?  "  said  Charlie,  distractedly. 

"  Is  that  goin'  well  with  nvy  friend  Charlie?  " 

"  In  de  house,  —  call  her,"  —  making  a  pretence  of 
rising. 

"  Non,  non!  I  don't  want,"  —  the  speaker  paused 
to  breathe —  "  ow  is  collection?  " 

"  Oh !  "  said  Charlie,  "  every  day  he  make  me  more 
poorer ! ' ' 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      129 

' '  What  do  you  hask  for  it  ?  "  asked  the  planter  in- 
differently, designating  the  house  by  a  wave  of  his 
whip. 

"  Ask  for  w'at?  "  said  Injin  Charlie. 

' '  De  house !    What  you  ask  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe,"  said  Charlie. 

"  What  you  would  take,  for  it !  "  cried  the  planter. 

"Wait  for  w'at?" 

"  What  you  would  take  for  the  whole  block? " 

"  I  don't  want  to  sell  hirn  !  " 

"I'll  give  you  ten  thousand  dollah  for  it." 

"  Ten  t'ousand  dollah  for  dis  house?  Oh,  no,  dat  is 
no  price.  He  is  blame  good  old  house,  —  dat  old 
house."  (Old  Charlie  and  the  Colonel  never  swore  in 
presence  of  each  other.)  "  Forty  years  dat  old  house 
didn't  had  to  be  paint !  I  easy  can  get  fifty  t'ousand 
dollah  for  dat  old  house." 

"  Fifty  thousand  picayunes  ;  yes,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  She's  a  good  house.  Can  make  plenty  money," 
pursued  the  deaf  man. 

"That's  what  make  you  so  rich,  eh,  Charlie?  " 

"  Non,  I  don't  make  nothing.  Too  blame  clever, 
me,  dat's  de  troub'.  She's  a  good  house, — make 
money  fast  like  a  steamboat,  —  make  a  barrel  full  in  a 
week !  Me,  I  lose  money  all  de  days.  Too  blame 
clever." 

"Charlie!" 

"Eh?" 

"  Tell  me  what  you'll  take." 

"Make?  I  don't  make  nothing.  Too  blame 
clever." 


130  OLD   CREOLE  BATS. 

"What  will  you  take?" 

"  Oh  !  I  got  enough  already,  —  half  drunk  now." 

"  What  will  you  take  for  the  'ouse?  " 

' '  You  want  to  buy  her  ?  ' ' 

"I  don't  know,"  —  (shrug),  —  "  may&e, — if  you 
sell  it  cheap." 

"  She's  a  bully  old  house." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  By  and  by  old  Charlie 
commenced  — 

"  Old  Injin  Charlie  is  a  low-down  dog." 

"  C'est  vrai,  oui!"  retorted  the  Colonel  in  an  under- 
tone. 

"  He's  got  Injin  blood  in  him." 

The  Colonel  nodded  assent. 

"But  he's  got  some  blame  good  blood,  too,  ain't 
it?" 

The  Colonel  nodded  impatiently. 

"Bien!  Old  Charlie's  Injin  blood  says,  'sell  de 
house,  Charlie,  you  blame  old  fool ! '  Mais,  old  Char- 
lie's good  blood  says,  '  Charlie  !  if  you  sell  dat  old 
house,  Charlie,  }Tou  low-down  old  dog,  Charlie,  what 
de  Compte  De  Charleu  make  for  you  grace-gran'- 
muzzer,  de  dev'  can  eat  3Tou,  Charlie,  I  don't  care.'  " 

"  But  you'll  sell  it  anyhow,  won't  you,  old  man?  " 

"  No  !  "  And  the  no  rumbled  off  in  muttered  oaths 
like  thunder  out  on  the  Gulf.  The  incensed  old 
Colonel  wheeled  and  started  off.  ; 

"Curl!"  (Colonel)  said  Charlie,  standing  up  un- 
steadily. 

The  planter  turned  with  an  inquiring  frown. 

"  I'll  trade  with  you  !  "  said  Charlie. 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      131 

The  Colonel  was  tempted.  " 'Ow'l  you  trade?" 
he  asked. 

"  My  house  for  yours  !  " 

The  old  Colonel  turned  pale  with  anger.  He  walked 
very  quickly  back,  and  came  close  up  to  his  kinsman. 

"  Charlie  !  "  he  said. 

"  Injin  Charlie,"  —  with  a  tipsy  nod. 

But  by  this  time  self-control  was  returning.  "  Sell 
Belles  Demoiselles  to  you?"  he  said  in  a  high  key, 
and  then  laughed  "  Ho,  ho,  ho !  "    and  rode  away. 

A  cloud,  but  not  a  dark  one,  overshadowed  the 
spirits  of  Belles  Demoiselles'  plantation.  The  old 
master,  whose  beaming  presence  had  always  made  him 
a  shining  Saturn,  spinning  and  sparkling  within  the 
bright  circle  of  his  daughters,  fell  into  musing  fits, 
started  out  of  frowning  reveries,  walked  often  by  him- 
self, and  heard  business  from  his  overseer  fretfully. 

No  wonder.  The  daughters  knew  his  closeness  in 
trade,  and  attributed  to  it  his  failure  to  negotiate  for 
the  Old  Charlie  buildings,  —  so  to  call  them.  They 
began  to  depreciate  Belles  Demoiselles.  If  a  north 
wind  blew,  it  was  too  cold  to  ride.  If  a  shower  had 
fallen,  it  was  too  muddy  to  drive.  In  the  morning  the 
garden  was  wet.  In  the  evening  the  grasshopper  was 
a  burden.  Ennui  was  turned  into  capital ;  every 
headache  was  interpreted  a  premonition  of  ague ;  and 
when  the  native  exuberance  of  a  flock  of  ladies  with- 
out a  want  or  a  care  burst  out  in  laughter  in  the 
father's  face,  they  spread  their  French  eyes,  rolled  up 
their  little  hands,  and  with  rigid  wrists  and  mock  vehe- 


132  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

mence  vowed  and  vowed  again  that  they  only  laughed 
at  their  misery,  and  should  pine  to  death  unless  they 
could  move  to  the  sweet  city.  "Oh!  the  theatre! 
Oh !  Orleans  Street !  Oh !  the  masquerade !  the 
Place  d'Armes  !  the  ball !  "  and  they  would  call  upon 
Heaven  with  French  h-reverence,  and  fall  into  each 
other's  arms,  and  whirl  down  the  hall  singing  a  waltz, 
end  with  a  grand  collision  and  fall,  and,  their  eyes 
streaming  merriment,  lay  the  blame  on  the  slippery 
floor,  that  would  some  day  be  the  death  of  the  whole 
seven. 

Three  times  more  the  fond  father,  thus  goaded, 
managed,  by  accident,  —  business  accident,  —  to  see 
old  Charlie  and  increase  his  offer ;  but  in  vain.  He 
finally  went  to  him  formally. 

"Eh?"  said  the  deaf  and  distant  relative.  "For 
what  you  want  him,  eh?  Why  you  don't  stay  where 
you  halways  be  'appy  ?  Dis  is  a  blame  old  rat-hole,  — 
good  for  old  Injin  Charlie,  —  da's  all.  Why  you 
don't  stay  where  you  be  halways  'appy  ?  Why  you  don't 
buy  somewheres  else?  " 

"That's  none  of  your  business,"  snapped  the 
planter.  Truth  was,  his  reasons  were  unsatisfactory 
even  to  himself. 

A  sullen  silence  followed.     Then  Charlie  spoke  : 

"Well,  now,  look  here;  I  sell  you  old  Charlie's 
house."  f 

"  Bien!  and  the  whole  block,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  Hoxd  on,"  said  Charlie.  "I  sell  you  de  'ouse 
and  de  block.  Den  I  go  and  git  drunk,  and  go  to 
sleep ;  de  dev'  comes  along  and  says,  '  Charlie !  old 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      133 

Charlie,  you  blame  low-down  old  clog,  wake  up  !  What 
you  cloin'  here?  Where's  de  'ouse  what  Monsieur  le 
Compte  give  your  grace-gran-muzzer ?  Don't  you  see 
dat  fine  gentyman,  De  Charleu,  done  gone  and  tore 
him  down  and  make  him  over  new,  you  blame  old  fool, 
Charlie,  you  low-down  old  Injin  dog  ! '  " 

"I'll  give  you  forty  thousand  dollars,"  said  the 
Colonel. 

"  For  de  'ouse?" 

"For  all." 

The  deaf  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Forty-five  !  "    said  the  Colonel. 

"  What  a  lie ?  For  what  you  tell  me  '  What  a  lie?  * 
I  don't  tell  you  no  lie." 

"  JVb?i,  non!  I  give  you  forty -five!  "  shouted  the 
Colonel. 

Charlie  shook  his  head  again. 

"Fifty!" 

He  shook  it  again. 

The  figures  rose  and  rose  to  — 

"  Seventy-five  !  " 

The  answer  was  an  invitation  to  go  away  and  let  the 
owner  alone,  as  he  was,  in  certain  specified  respects, 
the  vilest  of  living  creatures,  and  no  company  for  a 
fine  gentyman. 

The  "fine  gentyman"  longed  to  blaspheme, — but 
before  old  Charlie  !  —  in  the  name  of  pride,  how  could 
he?     He  mounted  and  started  away. 

"  Tell  you  what  I'll  make  wid  you,"  paid  Charlie. 

The  other,  guessing  aright,  turned  back  without  dis- 
mounting, smiling. 


134  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"How  much  Belles  Demoiselles  hoes  me  now?" 
asked  the  deaf  one. 

"  One  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  dollars,"  said 
the  Colonel,  firmly. 

"Yass,"  said  Charlie.  "I  don't  want  Belles  De- 
moiselles." 

The  old  Colonel's  quiet  laugh  intimated  it  made  no 
difference  either  way. 

"But  me,"  continued  Charlie,  "me,  —  I'm  got  le 
Compte  De  Charleu's  blood  in  me,  any'ow,  —  a  litt' 
bit,  any'ow,  ain't  it?  " 

The  Colonel  nodded  that  it  was. 

"Bien!  If  I  go  out  of  dis  place  and  don't  go  to 
Belles  Demoiselles,  de  peoples  will  say,  —  dey  will 
say,  '  Old  Charlie  he  been  all  doze  time  tell  a  blame 
lie!  He  ain't  no  kin  to  his  old  grace-gran-muzzer, 
not  a  blame  bit !  He  don't  got  nary  drop  of  De 
Charleu  blood  to  save  his  blame  low-down  old  Injin 
soul!  No,  sare !  What  I  want  wid  money,  den? 
No,  sare  !     My  place  for  yours  !  " 

He  turned  to  go  into  the  house,  just  too  soon  to  see 
the  Colonel  make  an  ugly  whisk  at  him  with  his  riding- 
whip.     Then  the  Colonel,  too,  moved  off. 

Two  or  three  times  over,  as  he  ambled  homeward, 
laughter  broke  through  his  annoyance,  as  he  recalled 
old  Charlie's  family  pride  and  the  presumption  of  his 
offer.  Yet  each  time  he  could  but  think  better  of  — 
not  the  offer  to  swap,  but  the  preposterous  ancestral 
loyalty.  It  was  so  much  better  than  he  could  have 
expected  from  his  "low-down"  relative,  and  not  un- 
like his  own  whim  withal  —  the  proposition  which  went 
with  it  was  forgiven. 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      135 

This  last  defeat  bore  so  harshly  on  the  master  of 
Belles  Demoiselles,  that  the  daughters,  reading  chagrin 
in  his  face,  began  to  repent.  The}r  loved  their  father 
as  daughters  can,  and  when  they  saw  their  pretended 
dejection  harassing  him  seriously  they  restrained  their 
complaints,  displayed  more  than  ordinary  tenderness, 
and  heroically  and  ostentatiously  concluded  there  was 
no  place  like  Belles  Demoiselles.  But  the  new  mood 
touched  him  more  than  the  old,  and  only  refined  his 
discontent.  Here  was  a  man,  rich  without  the  care  of 
riches,  free  from  any  real  trouble,  happiness  as  native 
to  his  house  as  perfume  to  his  garden,  deliberately,  as 
it  were  with  premeditated  malice,  taking  joy  by  the 
shoulder  and  bidding  her  be  gone  to  town,  whither  he 
might  easily  have  followed,  only  that  the  very  same 
ancestral  nonsense  that  kept  Injin  Charlie  from  selling 
the  old  place  for  twice  its  value  prevented  him  from 
choosing  any  other  spot  for  a  cit}*"  home. 

But  by  and  by  the  charm  of  nature  and  the  merry 
hearts  around  him  prevailed ;  the  fit  of  exalted  sulks 
passed  off,  and  after  a  while  the  year  flared  up  at 
Christmas,  flickered,  and  went  out. 

New  Year  came  and  passed  ;  the  beautiful  garden  of 
Belles  Demoiselles  put  on  its  spring  attire  ;  the  seven 
fair  sisters  moved  from  rose  to  rose  ;  the  cloud  of  dis- 
content had  warmed  into  invisible  vapor  in  the  rich 
sunlight  of  family  affection,  and  on  the  common  mem- 
ory the  only  scar  of  last  year's  wound  was  old  Charlie's 
sheer  impertinence  in  crossing  the  caprice  of  the  De 
Charleus.  The  cup  of  gladness  seemed  to  fill  with  the 
filling  of  the  river. 


136  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

How  high  that  river  was !  Its  tremendous  current 
rolled  and  tumbled  and  spun  along,  hustling  the  long 
funeral  flotillas  of  drift, — and  how  near  shore  it 
came  !  Men  were  out  day  and  night,  watching  the 
levee.  On  windy  nights  even  the  old  Colonel  took 
part,  and  grew  light-hearted  with  occupation  and  ex- 
citement, as  every  minute  the  river  threw  a  white  arm 
over  the  levee's  top,  as  though  it  would  vault  over. 
But  all  held  fast,  and,  as  the  summer  drifted  in,  the 
water  sunk  down  into  its.  banks  and  looked  quite 
incapable  of  harm. 

On  a  summer  afternoon  of  uncommon  mildness,  old 
Colonel  Jean  Albert  Henri  Joseph  De  Charleu-Marot, 
being  in  a  mood  for  revery,  slipped  the  custody  of  his 
femiuine  rulers  and  sought  the  crown  of  the  levee, 
where  it  was  his  wont  to  promenade.  Presently  he 
sat  upon  a  stone  bench,  —  a  favorite  seat.  Before 
him  lay  his  broad-spread  fields ;  near  by,  his  lordly 
mansion  ;  and  being  still,  —  perhaps  by  female  con- 
tact, —  somewhat  sentimental,  he  fell  to  musing  on  his 
past.  It  was  hardly  worthy  to  be  proud  of.  All  its 
morning  was  reddened  with  mad  frolic,  and  far  toward 
the  meridian  it  was  marred  with  elegant  rioting.  Pride 
had  kept  him  well-nigh  useless,  and  despised  the  hon- 
ors won  by  valor ;  gaming  had  dimmed  prosperity ; 
death  had  taken  his  heavenly  wife ;  voluptuous  ease 
had  mortgaged  his  lands  ;  and  yet  his  house  still  stood, 
his  sweet-smelling  fields  were  still  fruitful,  his  name 
was  fame  enough ;  and  yonder  and  yonder,  among  the 
trees  and  flowers,  like  angels  walking  in  Eden,  were 
the  seven  goddesses  of  his  only  worship. 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      137 

Just  then  a  slight  sound  behind  him  brought  him  to 
his  feet.  He  cast  his  eyes  anxiously  to  the  outer  edge 
of  the  little  strip  of  bank  between  the  levee's  base  and 
the  river.  There  was  nothing  visible.  He  paused, 
with  his  ear  toward  the  water,  his  face  full  of  fright- 
ened expectation.  Ha !  There  came  a  single  plash- 
ing sound,  like  some  great  beast  slipping  into  the  river, 
and  little  waves  in  a  wide  semi-circle  came  out  from 
under  the  bank  and  spread  over  the  water ! 

"My  God!" 

He  plunged  down  the  levee  and  bounded  through 
the  low  weeds  to  the  edge  of  the  bank.  It  was  sheer, 
and  the  water  about  four  feet  below.  He  did  not 
stand  quite  on  the  edge,  but  fell  upon  his  knees  a 
couple  of  yards  away,  wringing  his  hands,  moaning 
and  weeping,  and  staring  through  his  watery  eyes  at  a 
fine,  long  crevice  just  discernible  under  the  matted 
grass,  and  curving  outward  on  either  hand  toward  the 
river. 

"My  God!"  he  sobbed  aloud;  "my  God!"  and 
even  while  he  called,  his  God  answered :  the  tough 
Bermuda  grass  stretched  and  snapped,  the  crevice 
slowly  became  a  gape,  and  softly,  gradually,  with  no 
sound  but  the  closing  of  the  water  at  last,  a  ton  or 
more  of  earth  settled  into  the  boiling  eddy  and  dis- 
appeared. 

At  the  same  instant  a  pulse  of  the  breeze  brought 
from  the  garden  behind,  the  joyous,  thoughtless  laugh- 
ter of  the  fair  mistresses  of  Belles.  Demoiselles. 

The  old  Colonel  sprang  up  and  clambered  over  the 
levee.      Then   forcing  himself  to   a   more   composed 


138  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

movement,  he  hastened  into  the  house  and  ordered  his 
horse. 

"  Tell  my  children  to  make  merry  while  I  am  gone," 
he  left  word.  "I  shall  be  back  to-night,"  and  the 
horse's  hoofs  clattered  down  a  by-road  leading  to  the 
city. 

"  Charlie,"  said  the  planter,  riding  up  to  a  window, 
fi'om  which  the  old  man's  nightcap  was  thrust  out, 
"what  you  say,  Charlie,  —  my  house  for  yours,  eh, 
Charlie  —  what  you  say  ?  ' ' 

"  Ello  !  "  said  Charlie  ;  "  from  where  you  come  from 
dis  time  of  to-night  ?  ' ' 

"I  come  from  the  Exchange  in  St.  Louis  Street." 
(A  small  fraction  of  the  truth.) 

"  What  you  want?  "said  matter-of-fact  Charlie. 

"  I  come  to  trade." 

The  low-down  relative  drew  the  worsted  off  his  ears. 
"  Oh!  yass,"  he  said  with  an  uncertain  air. 

"Well,  old  man  Charlie,  what  you  sa}r:  my  house 
for  yours,  —  like  you  said,  —  eh,  Charlie  ?  " 

"I  dunno,"  said  Charlie;  "it's  nearly  mine  now. 
Why  you  don't  stay  dare  youse'f  ?  " 

"  Because  I  don't  want  I  "  said  the  Colonel  savagely. 
"  Is  clat  reason  enough  for  you?  You  better  take  me 
in  de  notion,  old  man,  I  tell  you,  — yes  !  " 

Charlie  never  winced  ;  but  how  his  answer  delighted 
the  Colonel !    Quoth  Charlie  : 

"I  don't  care  —  I  take  him! — mais,  possession 
give  right  off." 

"  Not  the  whole  plantation,  Charlie  ;  only  "  — 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Charlie  ;  "  we  easy  can  fix  dat. 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      139 

Mais,  what  for  you  don't  want  to  keep  him?  I  don't 
want  him.     You  better  keep  him." 

"  Don't  you  try  to  make  no  fool  of  me,  old  man," 
cried  the  planter. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  the  other.  "Oh,  no!  but  you 
make  a  fool  of  yourself,  ain't  it?  " 

The  dumbfounded  Colonel  stared  ;  Charlie  went  on  : 

"Yass!  Belles  Demoiselles  is  more  wort'  dan  tree 
block  like  dis  one.  I  pass  by  dare  since  two  weeks. 
Oh,  pritty  Belles  Demoiselles  !  De  cane  was  wave  in 
de  wind,  de  garden  smell  like  a  bouquet,  de  white-cap 
was  jump  up  and  down  on  de  river ;  seven  belles 
demoiselles  was  ridin'  on  horses.  '  Pritty,  pritty, 
pritty  ! '  says  old  Charlie.  Ah  !  Monsieur  le  p&re,  'ow 
'appy, 'appy,  'appy  !  " 

"Yass!"  he  continued  —  the  Colonel  still  staring 
— "  le  Compte  De  Charleu  have  two  familie.  One 
was  low-down  Choctaw,  one  was  high  up  noblesse. 
He  gave  the  low-down  Choctaw  dis  old  rat-hole ;  he 
give  Belles  Demoiselles  to  you  gran-fozzer ;  and  now 
you  don't  be  satisfait.  "What  I'll  do  wid  Belles  Demoi- 
selles? She'll  break  me  in  two  years,  yass.  And 
what  you'll  do  wid  old  Charlie's  house,  eh?  You'll 
tear  her  down  and  make  you'se'f  a  blame  old  fool.  I 
rather  wouldn't  trade  !  " 

The  planter  caught  a  big  breathful  of  anger,  but 
Charlie  went  straight  on  : 

"I  rather  wouldn't,  mats  I  will  do  it  for  you;  — 
just  the  same,  like  Monsieur  le  Compte  would  say, 
'  Charlie,  you  old  fool,  I  want  to  shange  houses  wid 
you.'  " 


140  OLD   CBEOLE  DAYS. 

So  long  as  the  Colonel  suspected  irony  be  was  angry, 
but  as  Charlie  seemed,  after  all,  to  be  certainly  in 
earnest,  he  began  to  feel  conscience-stricken.  He  was 
by  no  means  a  tender  man,  but  his  lately-discovered 
misfortune  had  unhinged  him,  and  this  strange,  un- 
deserved, disinterested  family  fealty  on  the  part  of 
Charlie  touched  his  heart.  And  should  he  still  try  to 
lead  him  into  the  pitfall  he  had  dug?  He  hesitated; 
—  no,  he  would  show  him  the  place  by  broad  daylight, 
and  if  he  chose  to  overlook  the  "caving  bank,"  it 
would  be  his  own  fault ;  —  a  trade's  a  trade. 

"Come,"  said  the  planter,  "come  at  my  house  to- 
night ;  to-morrow  we  look  at  the  place  before  break- 
fast, and  finish  the  trade." 

"  For  what?  "  said  Charlie. 

"Oh,  because  I  got  to  come  in  town  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"  I  don't  want,"  said  Charlie.  "  How  I'm  goin'  to 
come  dere  ?  ' ' 

"  I  git  you  a  horse  at  the  liberty  stable." 

"Well  —  anyhow  —  I  don't  care  —  I'll  go."  And 
they  went. 

When  they  had  ridden  a  long  time,  and  were  on  the 
road  darkened  by  hedges  of  Cherokee  rose,  the  Colonel 
called  behind  him  to  the  "  low-down  "  scion  : 

"  Keep  the  road,  old  man." 

"Eh?" 

"  Keep  the  road." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  all  right ;  I  keep  my  word ;  we  don't  goin' 
to  play  no  tricks,  eh?  " 

But  the  Colonel  seemed  not  to  hear.     His  ungene- 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      141 

rous  design  was  beginning  to  be  hateful  to  him.  Not 
only  old  Charlie's  unprovoked  goodness  was  prevail- 
ing ;  the  eulogy  on  Belles  Demoiselles  had  stirred  the 
depths  of  an  intense  love  for  his  beautiful  home.  True, 
if  he  held  to  it,  the  caving  of  the  bank,  at  its  present 
fearful  speed,  would  let  the  house  into  the  river  within 
three  months  ;  but  were  it  not  better  to  lose  it  so,  than 
sell  his  birthright?  Again,  —  coming  back  to  the  first 
thought,  —  to  betray  his  own  blood  !  It  was  only  Injin 
Charlie  ;  but  had  not  the  De  Charleu  blood  just  spoken 
out  in  him  ?     Unconsciously  he  groaned. 

After  a  time  they  struck  a  path  approaching  the 
plantation  in  the  rear,  and  a  little  after,  passing  from 
behind  a  clump  of  live-oaks,  they  came  in  sight  of  the 
villa.  It  looked  so  like  a  gem,  shining  through  its 
dark  grove,  so  like  a  great  glow-worm  in  the  dense 
foliage,  so  significant  of  luxury  and  gayety,  that  the 
poor  master,  from  an  overflowing  heart,  groaned  again. 

"What?"  asked  Charlie. 

The  Colonel  only  drew  his  rein,  and,  dismounting 
mechanically,  contemplated  the  sight  before  him.  The 
high,  arched  doors  and  windows  were  thrown  wide  to 
the  summer  air ;  from  every  opening  the  bright  light 
of  numerous  candelabra  darted  out  upon  the  sparkling 
foliage  of  magnolia  and  bay,  and  here  and  there  in 
the  spacious  verandas  a  colored  lantern  swaj'ed  in  the 
gentle  breeze.  A  sound  of  revel  fell  on  the  ear,  the 
music  of  harps ;  and  across  one  window,  brighter 
than  the  rest,  flitted,  once  or  twice,  the  shadows  of 
dancers.  But  oh !  the  shadows  flitting  across  the 
heart  of  the  fair  mansion's  master ! 


142  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"  Old  Charlie,"  said  he,  gazing  fondly  at  his  house, 
"You  and  me  is  both  old,  eh?" 

"Yaas,"  said  the  stolid  Charlie. 

"And  we  has  both  been  bad  enough  in  our  time, 
eh,  Charlie?" 

Charlie,  surprised  at  the  tender  tone,  repeated 
"Yaas." 

"And  you  and  me  is  mighty  close?" 

"Blame  close,  yaas." 

"  But  you  never  know  me  to  cheat,  old  man !  " 

"  No,"  —  impassively. 

"And  do  you  think  I  would  cheat  you  now?" 

"  I  dunno,"  said  Chaiiie.     "  I  don't  believe." 

"  Well,  old  man,  old  man," — his  voice  began  to 
quiver,  —  "I  sha'n't  cheat  you  now.  My  God!  — 
old  man,  I  tell  you  —  you  better  not  make  the 
trade!" 

"  Because  for  what?  "  asked  Charlie  in  plain  anger ; 
but  both  looked  quickly  toward  the  house !  The 
Colonel  tossed  his  hands  wildly  in  the  air,  rushed  for- 
ward a  step  or  two,  and  giving  one  fearful  scream  of 
agony  and  fright,  fell  forward  on  his  face  in  the 
path.  Old  Charlie  stood  transfixed  with  horror.  Belles 
Demoiselles,  the  realm  of  maiden  beauty,  the  home  of 
merriment,  the  house  of  dancing,  all  in  the  tremor 
and  glow  of  pleasure,  suddenly  sunk,  with  one  short, 
wild  wail  of  terror  —  sunk,  sunk,  down,  down,  down, 
into  the  merciless,  unfathomable  flood  of  the  Missis- 
sippi. 

Twelve  long  months  were  midnight  to  the  mind  of 
the  childless  father ;  when  they  were  only  half  gone, 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      143 

he  took  his  bed  ;  and  every  day,  and  every  night,  old 
Charlie,  the  "low-down,"  the  "fool,"  watched  him 
tenderly,  tended  him  lovingly,  for  the  sake  of  his 
name,  his  misfortunes,  and  his  broken  heart.  No 
woman's  step  crossed  the  floor  of  the  sick-chamber, 
whose  western  dormer-windows  overpeered  the  dingy 
architecture  of  old  Charlie's  block ;  Charlie  and  a 
skilled  physician,  the  one  all  interest,  the  other  all 
gentleness,  hope,  and  patience  —  these  only  entered 
by  the  door ;  but  by  the  window  came  in  a  sweet- 
scented  evergreen  vine,  transplanted  from  the  caving 
bank  of  Belles  Demoiselles.  It  caught  the  rays  of 
sunset  in  its  flowery  net  and  let  then  softly  in  upon 
the  sick  man's  bed ;  gathered  the  glancing  beams  of 
the  moon  at  midnight,  and  often  wakened  the  sleeper 
to  look,  with  his  mindless  eyes,  upon  their  pretty  sil- 
ver fragments  strewn  upon  the  floor. 

By  and  by  there  seemed  —  there  was  —  a  twinkling 
dawn  of  returning  reason.  Slowly,  peacefully,  with 
an  increase  unseen  from  day  to  day,  the  light  of 
reason  came  into  the  eyes,  and  speech  became  cohe- 
rent ;  but  withal  there  came  a  failing  of  the  wrecked 
body,  and  the  doctor  said  that  monsieur  was  both 
better  and  worse. 

One  evening,  as  Charlie  sat  by  the  vine-clad  win- 
dow with  his  tireless  pipe  in  his  hand,  the  old  Colonel's 
eyes  fell  full  upon  his  own,  and  rested  there. 

"Charl — ,"  he  said  with  an  effort,  and  his  delighted 
nurse  hastened  to  the  bedside  and  bowed  his  best  ear. 
There  was  an  unsuccessful  effort  or  two,  and  then  he 
whispered,  smiling  with  sweet  sadness,  — 


144  f  •;     OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

"We  didn't  trade." 

The  truth,  in  this  case,"  was  a  secondary  matter 
to  Charlie ;  the  main  ptfint  was  to  give  a  pleasing 
answer.  So  he  nodded  his  head  decidedly,  as 
who  should  say  —  "Oh  yes,  we  did,  it  was  a  bona- 
fide  swap!  "  but  when  he  saw  the  smile  vanish,  he 
tried  the  other  expedient  and  shook  his  head  with 
still  more  vigor,  to  signify  that  they  had  not  so 
much  as  approached  a  bargain ;  and  the  smile  re- 
turned. 

Charlie  wanted  to  see  the  vine  recognized.  He 
stepped  backward  to  the  window  with  a  broad  smile, 
shook  the  foliage,  nodded  and  looked  smart. 

"I  know,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  beaming  eyes, 
"  —  many  weeks." 

The  next  day  — 

"Charl  — " 

The  best  ear  went  down. 

"  Send  for  a  priest." 

The  priest  came,  and  was  alone  with  him  a  whole 
afternoon.  When  he  left,  the  patient  was  very  hag- 
gard and  exhausted,  but  smiled  and  would  not  suffer 
the  crucifix  to  be  removed  from  his  breast. 

One  more  morning  came.  Just  before  dawn  Char- 
lie, lying  on  a  pallet  in  the  room,  thought  he  was 
called,  and  came  to  the  bedside. 

"Old  man,"  whispered  the  failing  invalid,  "is  it 
caving  yet  ?  ' ' 

Charlie  nodded. 

"  It  won't  pay  you  out." 

"  Oh,  dat  makes  not'ing,"   said  Charlie.     Two  big 


BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION.      145 

tears  rolled  down  his  brown  face.  "  Dat  makes 
not'in." 

The  Colonel  whispered  once  more  : 

' '  Mes  belles  demoiselles  I  in  paradise  ;  —  in  the  gar- 
den—  I  shall  be  with  them  at  sunrise;"  and  so  it 
was. 


"Posson  JoneV 


"POSSON   JONE 


'  »  1 


To  Jules  St.-Ange  —  elegant  little  heathen  —  there 
yet  remained  at  manhood  a  remembrance  of  having 
been  to  school,  and  of  having  been  taught  by  a  stony- 
headed  Capuchin  that  the  world  is  round  —  for  ex- 
ample, like  a  cheese.  This  round  world  is  a  cheese  to 
be  eaten  through,  and  Jules  had  nibbled  quite  into  his 
cheese-world  already  at  twenty-two. 

He  realized  this  as  he  idled  about  one  Sunday  morn- 
ing where  the  intersection  of  Royal  and  Conti  Streets 
some  seventy  years  ago  formed  a  central  corner  of 
New  Orleans.  Yes,  yes,  the  trouble  was  he  had  been 
wasteful  and  honest.  He  discussed  the  matter  with 
that  faithful  friend  and  confidant,  Baptiste,  his  yellow 
body-servant.  They  concluded  that,  papa's  patience 
and  tante's  pin-money  having  been  gnawed  away  quite 
to  the  rind,  there  were  left  open  only  these  few  easily- 
enumerated  resorts  :  to  go  to  work  —  they  shuddered  ; 
to  join  Major  Innerarity's  filibustering  expedition ;  or 
else  —  why  not?  —  to  try  some  games  of  confidence. 
At  twenty-two  one  must  begin  to  be  something.    Noth- 

1  Published  in  Appletons'  Journal.  Kepublished  by  per- 
mission. 

149 


150  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

ing  else  tempted ;  could  that  avail  ?  One  could  but 
try.  It  is  noble  to  try ;  and,  besides,  they  were  hun- 
gry. If  one  could  "make  the  friendship"  of  some 
person  from  the  country,  for  instance,  with  money, 
not  expert  at  cards  or  dice,  but,  as  one  would  say, 
"willing  to  learn,  one  might  find  cause  to'  say  some 
"Hail  Marys." 

The  sun  broke  through  a  clearing  sky,  and  Baptiste 
pronounced  it  good  for  luck.  There  had  been  a  hurri- 
cane in  the  night.  The  weed-grown  tile-roofs  were 
still  dripping,  and  from  lofty  brick  and  low  adobe 
walls  a  rising  steam  responded  to  the  summer  sun- 
light. Up-street,  and  across  the  Rue  clu  Canal,  one 
could  get  glimpses  of  the  gardens  in  Faubourg  Ste.- 
Marie  standing  in  silent  wretchedness,  so  many  tearful 
Lucre tias,  tattered  victims  of  the  storm.  Short  rem- 
nants of  the  wind  now  and  then  came  down  the  narrow 
street  in  erratic  puffs  heavily  laden  with  odors  of 
broken  boughs  and  torn  flowers,  skimmed  the  little 
pools  of  rain-water  in  the  deep  ruts  of  the  unpaved 
street,  and  suddenly  went  away  to  nothing,  like  a 
juggler's  butterflies  or  a  young  man's  money. 

It  was  very  picturesque,  the  Rue  Royale.  The  rich 
and  poor  met  together.  The  locksmith's  swinging  key 
creaked  next  door  to  the  bank ;  across  the  way, 
crouching,  mendicant-like,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great 
importing-house,  was  the  mud  laboratory  of  the  mender 
of  broken  combs.  Light  balconies  overhung  the  rows 
of  showy  shops  and  stores  open  for  trade  this  Sunday 
morning,  and  pretty  Latin  faces  of  the  higher  class 
glanced  over  their  savagely-pronged  railings  upon  the 


"POSSON  JOJXE\"  151 

passers  below.  At  some  windows  hung  lace  curtains, 
flannel  duds  at  some,  and  at  others  only  the  scraping 
and  sighing  one-hinged  shutter  groaning  toward  Paris 
after  its  neglectful  master. 

M.  St.-Ange  stood  looking  up  and  down  the  street 
for  nearly  an  hour.  But  few  ladies,  only  the  inveter- 
ate mass-goers,  were  out.  About  the  entrance  of  the 
frequent  cafes  the  masculine  gentility  stood  leaning  on 
canes,  with  which  now  one  and  now  another  beckoned 
to  Jules,  some  even  adding  pantomimic  hints  of  the 
social  cup. 

M.  St.-Ange  remarked  to  his  servant  without  turn- 
ing his  head  that  somehow  he  felt  sure  he  should  soon 
return  those  bons  that  the  mulatto  had  lent  him. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  them?  " 

"  Me  !  "  said  Baptiste,  quickly  ;  "  I  will  go  and  see 
the  bull-fight  in  the  Place  Congo." 

"There  is  to  be  a  bull-fight?  But  where  is  M. 
Cayetano?  " 

"  Ah,  got  all  his  affairs  wet  in  the  tornado.  Instead 
of  his  circus,  they  are  to  have  a  bull-fight  —  not  an 
ordinary  bull-fight  with  sick  horses,  but  a  buffalo-and- 
tiger  fight.     I  would  not  miss  it "  — 

Two  or  three  persons  ran  to  the  opposite  corner,  and 
commenced  striking  at  something  with  their  canes. 
Others  followed.  Can  M.  St.-Ange  and  servant,  who 
hasten  forward  —  can  the  Creoles,  Cubans,  Spaniards, 
San  Domingo  refugees,  and  other  loungers  —  can  they 
hope  it  is  a  fight?  They  hurry  forward.  Is  a  man  in  a 
fit?  The  crowd  pours  in  from  the  side-streets.  Have 
they  killed  a   so-long   snake?     Bareheaded   shopmen 


152  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

leave  their  wives,  who  stand  upon  chairs.  The  crowd 
huddles  and  packs.  Those  on  the  outside  make  little 
leaps  into  the  ah,  trying  to  be  tall. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

' '  Have  they  caught  a  real  live  rat  ? ' ' 

"  Who  is  hurt?  "  asks  some  one  in  English. 

u  Per  sonne,"  replies  a  shopkeeper;  "a  man's  hat 
blow'  in  the  gutter ;  but  he  has  it  now.  Jules  pick' 
it.  See,  that  is  the  man,  head  and  shoulders  on  top 
the  res'." 

"  He  in  the  homespun?  "  asks  a  second  shopkeeper. 
"  Humph  !  an  Amiricain  —  a  West-Floridian  ;  bah !  " 

"  But  wait ;  'st !  he  is  speaking  ;  listen !  " 

' '  To  who  is  he  speak ? ' ' 

"Sh-sh-sh!  to  Jules." 

"Jules  who?" 

"  Silence,  you  !  To  Jules  St.-Ange,  what  howe  me 
a  bill  since  long  time.     Sh-sh-sh  !  " 

Then  the  voice  was  heard. 

Its  owner  was  a  man  of  giant  stature,  with  a  slight 
stoop  in  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  was  making  a  constant, 
good-natured  attempt  to  accommodate  himself  to  ordi- 
nary doors  and  ceilings.  His  bones  were  those  of  an 
ox.  His  face  was  marked  more  by  weather  than  age, 
and  his  narrow  brow  was  bald  and  smooth.  He  had 
instantaneously  formed  an  opinion  of  Jules  St.-Ange, 
and  the  multitude  of  words,  most  of  them  lingual 
curiosities,  with  which  he  was  rasping  the  wide-open 
ears  of  his  listeners,  signified,  in  short,  that,  as  sure 
as  his  name  was  Parson  Jones,  the  little  Creole  was  a 
"  plum  gentleman." 


"  possojsr  jone\"  153 

M.  St.-Ange  bowed  aw"!  SW'ted  and  was  about  to 
call  attention,  by  both  gesture  and  speech,  to  a  singu- 
lar object  on  top  of  the  still  uncovered  head,  when  the 
nervous  motion  of  the  Americain  anticipated  him,  as, 
throwing  up  an  immense  hand,  he  drew  down  a  large 
roll  of  bank-notes.  The  crowd  laughed,  the  West- 
Floridian  joining,  and  began  to  disperse. 

"  Why,  that  money  belongs  to  Smyrny  Church," 
said  the  giant. 

"  You  are  very  dengerous  to  make  your  money 
expose  like  that,  Misty  Posson  Jone',"  said  St.-Ange, 
counting  it  with  his  eyes. 

The  countryman  gave  a  start  and  smile  of  sur- 
prise. 

"How  d'dyou  know  my  name  was  Jones?"  he 
asked ;  but,  without  pausing  for  the  Creole's  answer, 
furnished  in  his  reckless  way  some  further  specimens 
of  West-Floridian  English ;  and  the  conciseness  with 
which  he  presented  full  intelligence  of  his  home, 
family,  calling,  lodging-house,  and  present  and  future 
plans,  might  have  passed  for  consummate  art,  had  it 
not  been  the  most  run- wild  nature.  "And  I've  done 
been  to  Mobile,  you  know,  on  business  for  Bethesdy 
Church.  It's  the  on'yest  time  I  ever  been  from  home  ; 
now  you  wouldn't  of  believed  that,  would  you?  But 
I  admire  to  have  saw  you,  that's  so.  You've  got  to 
come  and  eat  with  me.  Me  and  my  boy  ain't  been 
fed  yit.  What  might  one  call  yo'  name?  Jools? 
Come  on,  Jools.  Come  on,  Colossus.  That's  my 
niggah  —  his  name's  Colossus  of  Rhodes.  Is  that  yo' 
yallah  boy,  Jools?    Fetch  him   along,  Colossus.     It 


154  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

seems  like  a  special  providence.  — Jools,  do  you  believe 
in  a  special  providence  ?  ' ' 

Jules  said  he  did. 

The  new-made  friends  moved  briskly  off,  followed 
by  Baptiste  and  a  short,  square,  old  negro,  very  black 
and  grotesque,  who  had  introduced  himself  to  the 
mulatto,  with  mauy  glittering  and  cavernous  smiles, 
as  "  d'body-sarvant  of  d'Rev'n'  Mr.  Jones." 

Both  pairs  enlivened  their  walk  with  conversation. 
Parson  Jones  descanted  upon  the  doctrine  he  had  men- 
tioned, as  illustrated  in  the  perplexities  of  cotton-grow- 
ing, and  concluded  that  there  would  always  be  "a 
special  providence  again'  cotton  untell  folks  quits  a- 
pressin'  of  it  and  haulin'  of  it  on  Sundays  !  " 

"  Je  dis,"  said  St.-Ange,  in  response,  "  I  thing  you 
is  juz  right.  I  believe,  me,  strong-strong  in  the  im- 
providence, yes.  You  know  my  papa  he  hown  a 
sugah-plantation,  you  know.  'Jules,  me  son,'  he  say 
one  time  to  me,  '  I  goin'  to  make  one  baril  sugah  to 
fedge  the  moze  high  price  in  New  Orleans.'  Well,  he 
take  his  bez  baril  sugah  —  I  nevah  see  a  so  careful  man 
like  me  papa  always  to  make  a  so  beautiful  sugah  et 
strop.  '  Jules,  go  at  Father  Pierre  an'  ged  this  lill 
pitcher  fill  with  holy- water,  an'  tell  him  sen'  his  tin 
bucket,  and  I  will  make  it  fill  with  quitte.'  I  ged  the 
holy-water ;  my  papa  sprinkle  it  over  the  baril,  an' 
make  one  cross  on  the  'ead  of  the  baril." 

"  Why,  Jools,"  said  Parson  Jones,  "  that  didn't  do 
no  good." 

"  Din  do  no  good  !  Id  broughd  the  so  great  value  ! 
You  can  strike  me  dead  if  thad  baril  suffah  din  fedge 


"  POSSON  JONE\"  155 

the  more  high  cost  than  any  other  in  the  city.  Parce- 
que,  the  man  what  buy  that  baril  sugah  he  make  a 
mistake  of  one  hundred  pound" — falling  back  — 
"  Mais  certainlee  !  " 

"And  you  think  that  was  growin'  out  of  the  holy- 
'water?  "  asked  the  parson. 

11  Mais,  what  could  make  it  else?  Id  could  not  be 
the  quitte,  because  my  papa  keep  the  bucket,  an'  for- 
get to  sen'  the  quitte  to  Father  Pierre." 

Parson  Jones  was  disappointed. 

"Well,  uow,  Jools,  you  know,  I  don't  think  that 
was  right.     I  reckon  you  must  be  a  plum  Catholic." 

M.  St.-Ange  shrugged.  He  would  not  deny  his 
faith. 

"I  am  a  Catholique,  mais" — brightening  as  he 
hoped  to  recommend  himself  anew  — ' '  not  a  good 
one." 

"Well,  you  know,"  said  Jones  —  "  where's  Colos- 
sus ?  Oh !  all  right.  Colossus  strayed  off  a  minute 
in  Mobile,  and  I  plum  lost  him  for  two  days.  Here's 
the  place  ;  come  in.  Colossus  and  this  boy  can  go  to 
the  kitchen. — Now,  Colossus,  what  air  you  a-beck- 
onin'  at  me  faw?" 

He  let  his  servant  draw  him  aside  and  address  him 
in  a  whisper. 

"Oh,  go  'way!"  said  the  parson  with  a  jerk. 
"  Who's  goin'  to  throw  me?  What?  Speak  louder. 
Why,  Colossus,  you  shayn't  talk  so,  saw.  'Pon  my 
soul,  you're  the  mightiest  fool  I  ever  taken  up  with. 
Jest  you  go  down  that  alley-way  with  this  yalla  boy, 
and  don't  show  yo'  face  untell  yo'  called  !  " 


156  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

The  negro  begged  ;  the  master  wrathily  insisted. 

"  Colossus,  will  you  do  ez  I  tell  you,  or  shell  I  hev' 
to  strike  you,  saw?  " 

"0  Mahs  Jimmy,  I  —  I's  gwine  ;  but" — he  ven- 
tured nearer — "don't  on  no  account  drink  J^>thin', 
Mahs  Jimmy." 

Such  was  the  negro's  earnestness  that  he  put  one 
foot  in  the  gutter,  and  fell  heavily  against  his  master. 
The  parson  threw  him  off  angrily. 

"Thar,  now!  Why,  Colossus,  you  most  of  been 
dosted  with  sumthin' ;  yo'  plum  crazy. — Humph, 
come  on,  Jools,  let's  eat !  Humph !  to  tell  me  that 
when  I  never  taken  a  drop,  exceptin'  for  chills,  in  my 
life  —  which  he  knows  so  as  well  as  me  ! ' ' 

The  two  masters  began  to  ascend  a  stair. 

"  Mais,  he  is  a  sassy  ;  I  would  sell  him,  me,"  said 
the  young  Creole. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  replied  the  parson; 
"  though  there  is  people  in  Bethesdy  who  says  he  is  a 
rascal.  He's  a  powerful  smart  fool.  Why,  that  boy's 
got  money,  Jools  ;  more  money  than  religion,  I  reckon. 
I'm  shore  he  fallen  into  mighty  bad  company  "  —  they 
passed  beyond  earshot. 

Baptiste  and  Colossus,  instead  of  going  to  the  tavern 
kitchen,  passed  to  the  next  door  and  entered  the  dark 
rear  corner  of  a  low  grocery,  where,  the  law  notwith- 
standing, liquor  was  covertly  sold  to  slaves.  There, 
in  the  quiet  company  of  Baptiste  and  the  grocer,  the 
colloquial  powers  of  Colossus,  which  were  simply  pro- 
digious, began  very  soon  to  show  themselves. 

"For  whilst,"  said  he,  "Mahs  Jimmy  has  eddica- 


"POSSON  JONE\"  157 

tion,  you  know  — whilst  he  has  edclication,  I  has  'scre- 
tion.  He  has  eddication  and  I  has  'scretion,  an'  so 
we  gits  along." 

He  drew  a  black  bottle  down  the  counter,  and,  lay- 
ing half  his  length  upon  the  damp  board,  continued  : 

"As  a  p'inciple  I  discredits  de  imbimin'  of  awjus 
liquors.  De  imbimin'  of  awjus  liquors,  de  wiolution 
of  de  Sabbaf,  de  playin'  of  de  fiddle,  and  de  usin'  of 
by-words,  dey  is  de  fo'  sins  of  de  conscience  ;  an'  if 
any  man  sin  de  fo'  sins  of  de  conscience,  de  debble 
done  sharp  his  fork  fo'  dat  man. — Ain't  that  so, 
boss  ? ' ' 

The  grocer  was  sure  it  was  so. 

' '  Neberdeless ,  mind  you  ' '  —  here  the  orator  brimmed 
his  glass  from  the  bottle  and  swallowed  the  contents 
with  a  dry  eye —  "  mind  you,  a  roytious  man,  sech  as 
ministers  of  de  gospel  and  dere  body-sarvants,  can 
take  a  leetle  for  de  weak  stomach." 

But  the  fascinations  of  Colossus's  eloquence  must 
not  mislead  us  ;  this  is  the  story  of  a  true  Christian ; 
to  wit,  Parson  Jones. 

The  parson  and  his  new  friend  ate.  But  the  coffee 
M.  St.-Ange  declared  he  could  not  touch ;  it  was  too 
wretchedly  bad.  At  the  French  Market,  near  by, 
there  was  some  noble  coffee.  This,  however,  would 
have  to  be  bought,  and  Parson  Jones  had  scruples. 

"You  see,  Jools,  every  man  has  his  conscience  to 
guide  him,  which  it  does  so  in  "  — 

"Oh,  yes!"  cried  St.-Ange,  "  conscien' ;  thad  is 
the  bez,  Posson  Jone'.  Certainlee  !  I  am  a  CatJio- 
lique,  you  is  a  scliismatique ;  you  thing  it  is  wrong  to 


158  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

dring  some  coffee  —  well,  then,  it  is  wrong  ;  you  thing 
it  is  wrong  to  make  the  sugah  to  ged  the  so  large  price 
—  well,  then,  it  is  wrong;  I  thing  it  is  right — well, 
then,  it  is  right;  it  is  all  'abit;  c'est  tout.  What  a 
man  thing  is  right,  is  right ;  'tis  all  'abit.  A  man  muz 
nod  go  again'  his  conscien' .  My  faith  !  do  you  thing 
I  would  go  again'  my  conscien'  ?  3Iais  allons,  led  us 
go  and  ged  some  coffee." 

"  Jools." 

"Wat?" 

"Jools,  it  ain't  the  drinkin'  of  coffee,  but  the  buyin' 
of  it  on  a  Sabbath.  You  must  really  excuse  me, 
Jools,  it's  again'  conscience,  you  know." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  St.-Ange,  "  c'est  very  true.  For  you 
it  would  be  a  sin,  mats  for  me  it  is  only  'abit.  Eil- 
ligion  is  a  very  strange  ;  I  know  a  man  one  time,  he 
thing  it  was  wrong  to  go  to  cock-fight  Sunday  evening. 
I  thing  it  is  all  'abit.  Mais,  come,  Posson  Jone'  ;  I 
have  got  one  friend,  Miguel ;  led  us  go  at  his  house 
and  ged  some  coffee.  Come  ;  Miguel  have  no  familie  ; 
only  him  and  Joe  —  always  like  to  see  friend ;  allons, 
led  us  come  yonder." 

"  Why,  Jools,  my  dear  friend,  you  know,"  said  the 
shamefaced  parson,  "  I  never  visit  on  Sundays." 

"  Never  w'at?  "  asked  the  astounded  Creole. 

"  No,"  said  Jones,  smiling  awkwardly. 

' '  Never  visite  ? ' ' 

"  Exceptin'  sometimes  amongst  church- members," 
said  Parson  Jones. 

"  Mais,"  said  the  seductive  St.-Ange,  "  Miguel  and 
Joe   is   church-member'  —  certainlee  !      They   love  to 


"POSSON  JONE\"  159 

talk  about  rilligiou.  Come  at  Miguel  and  talk  about 
some  rilligion.     I  am  nearly  expire  for  me  coffee." 

Parson  Jones  took  his  hat  from  beneath  his  chair 
and  rose  up. 

"  Jools,"  said  the  weak  giant,  "I  ought  to  be  in 
church  right  now." 

"  Mais,  the  church  is  right  yonder  at  Miguel',  yes. 
Ah!"  continued  St.-Ange,  as  they  descended  the 
stairs,  "I  thing  every  man  muz  have  the  rilligion  he 
like'  the  bez —  me,  I  like  the  Catholique  rilligion  the 
bez  —  for  me  it  is  the  bez.  Every  man  will  sure  go  to 
heaven  if  he  like  his  rilligion  the  bez." 

"Jools,"  said  the  West-Floridian,  laying  his  great 
hand  tenderly  upon  the  Creole's  shoulder,  as  they 
stepped  out  upon  the  banquette,  "do  you  think  you 
have  any  shore  hopes  of  heaven  ?  ' ' 

"  Yass  !  "  replied  St.-Ange;  "I  am  sure-sure.  I 
thing  everybody  will  go  to  heaven.  I  thing  you  will 
go,  et  I  thing  Miguel  will  go,  et  Joe  —  everybody,  I 
thing  —  mais,  hof  course,  not  if  they  not  have  been 
christen'.     Even  I  thing  some  niggers  will  go." 

"Jools,"  said  the  parson,  stopping  in  his  walk — 
"  Jools,  I  don't  want  to  lose  my  niggah." 

"  You  will  not  loose  him.  With  Baptiste  he  cannot 
ged  loose." 

But  Colossus's  master  was  not  re-assured. 

"Now,"  said  he,  still  tarrying,  "this  is  jest  the 
way  ;  had  I  of  gone  to  church ' '  — 

"  Posson  Jone',"  said  Jules. 

"What?" 

"  I  tell  you.     We  goin'  to  church !  " 


160  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"  "Will  you?  "  asked  Jones,  joyously. 

"  Allons,  come  along,"  said  Jules,  taking  his  elbow. 

They  walked  down  the  Eue  Ckartres,  passed  several 
corners,  and  by  and  by  turned  into  a  cross  street. 
The  parson  stopped  an  instant  as  they  were  turning, 
and  looked  back  up  the  street. 

"  Wat  3'ou  lookin'  ?  "  asked  his  companion. 

"  I  thought  I  saw  Colossus,"  answered  the  par- 
son, with  an  anxious  face;  "I  reckon  'twa'n't  him, 
though."     And  they  went  on. 

The  street  they  now  entered  was  a  very  quiet  one. 
The  eye  of  any  chance  passer  would  have  been  at  once 
drawn  to  a  broad,  heavy,  white  brick  edifice  on  the 
lower  side  of  the  way,  with  a  flag-pole  standing  out 
like  a  bowsprit  from  one  of  its  great  windows,  and 
a  pair  of  lamps  hanging  before  a  large  closed  en- 
trance. It  was  a  theatre,  honey-combed  with  gam- 
bling-dens. At  this  morning  hour  all  was  still,  and  the 
only  sign  of  life  was  a  knot  of  little  barefoot  girls 
gathered  within  its  narrow  shade,  and  each  carrying 
an  infant  relative.  Into  this  place  the  parson  and  M. 
St.-Ange  entered,  the  little  nurses  jumping  up  from 
the  sills  to  let  them  pass  in. 

A  half -hour  may  have  passed.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  the  whole  juvenile  company  were  laying  alternate 
eyes  and  ears  to  the  chinks,  to  gather  what  they  could 
of  an  interesting  quarrel  going  on  within. 

"  I  did  not,  saw  !  I  given  3rou  no  cause  of  offence, 
saw  !  It's  not  so,  saw  !  Mister  Jools  simply  mistaken 
the  house,  thinkin'  it  was  a  Sabbath-school !  No  such 
thing,  saw  ;  I  ain't  bound  to  bet !     Yes,  I  kin  git  out ! 


"POSSON  JONE\"  1G1 

Yes,  without  bettin' !  I  hev  a  right  to  my  opinion  ;  I 
reckon  I'm  a  white  man,  saw  !  No  saw  !  I  on'y  said 
I  didn't  think  you  could  get  the  game  on  them  cards. 
'Sno  such  thing,  saw !  I  do  not  know  how  to  play  ! 
I  wouldn't  hev  a  rascal's  money  ef  I  should  win  it! 
Shoot,  ef  you  dare  !  You  can  kill  me,  but  you  cayn't 
scare  me  !  No,  I  shayn't  bet !  I'll  die  first !  Yes, 
saw ;  Mr.  Jools  can  bet  for  me  if  he  admires  to ;  I 
ain't  his  mostah." 

Here  the  speaker  seemed  to  direct  his  words  to 
St.-Ange. 

"  Saw,  I  don't  understand  you,  saw.  I  never  said 
I'd  loan  you  money  to  bet  for  me.  I  didn't  suspicion 
this  from  you,  saw.  No,  I  won't  take  any  more 
lemonade  ;  it's  the  most  notorious  stuff  I  ever  drank, 
saw  !  " 

M.  St.-Ange's  replies  were  in  falsetto  and  not  with- 
out effect ;  for  presently  the  parson's  indignation  and 
anger  began  to  melt.  "Don't  ask  me,  Jools,  I  can't 
help  you.  It's  no  use;  it's  a  matter  of  conscience 
with  me,  Jools." 

"Mais  oui!  'tis  a  matt'  of  conscien'  wid  me,  the 
same." 

"But,  Jools,  the  money's  none  o'  mine,  nohow;  it 
belongs  to  Smyrny,  you  know." 

"  If  I  could  make  jus'  one  bet,"  said  the  persuasive 
St.-Ange,  "I  would  leave  this  place,  fas'-fas',  yes. 
If  I  had  thing  —  mais  I  did  not  soupspicion  this  from 
you,  Posson  Jone'  "  — 

"Don't,  Jools,  don't!" 

"  No '  Posson  Jone'." 


162  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"  You're  bound  to  win?  "  said  the  parson,  wavering. 

"  Mais  certainement  I  But  it  is  not  to  win  that  I 
want ;  'tis  me  conscien'  — me  honor  !  " 

"Well,  Jools,  I  hope  I'm  not  a-doin'  no  wrong. 
I'll  loan  you  some  of  this  money  if  you  say  you'll 
come  right  out  'thout  takin'  your  winnin's." 

All  was  still.  The  peeping  children  could  see  the 
parson  as  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  breast-pocket. 
There  it  paused  a  moment  in  bewilderment,  then 
plunged  to  the  bottom.  It  came  back  empty,  and  fell 
lifelessly  at  his  side.  His  head  dropped  upon  his 
breast,  his  eyes  were  for  a  moment  closed,  his  broad 
palms  were  lifted  and  pressed  against  his  forehead,  a 
tremor  seized  him,  and  he  fell  all  in  a  lump  to  the 
floor.  The  children  ran  off  with  their  infant-loads, 
leaving  Jules  St.-Ange  swearing  by  all  his  deceased 
relatives,  first  to  Miguel  and  Joe,  and  then  to  the  lifted 
parson,  that  he  did  not  know  what  had  become  of  the 
money  ' '  except  if ' '  the  black  man  had  got  it. 

In  the  rear  of  ancient  New  Orleans,  beyond  the 
sites  of  the  old  rampart,  a  trio  of  Spanish  forts,  where 
the  town  has  since  sprung  up  and  grown  old,  green 
with  all  the  luxuriance  of  the  wild  Creole  summer,  lay 
the  Congo  Plains.  Here  stretched  the  canvas  of  the 
historic  Cayetano,  who  Sunday  after  Sunday  sowed 
the  sawdust  for  his  circus-ring. 

But  to-day  the  great  showman  had  fallen  short  of 
his  printed  promise.  The  hurricane  had  come  by 
night,  and  with  one  fell  swash  had  made  an  irre- 
trievable sop  of  every  thing.     The  circus  trailed  away 


"POSSON  JONE\"  163 

its  bedraggled  magnificence,  and  the  ring  was  cleared 
for  the  bull. 

Then  the  sun  seemed  to  come  out  and  work  for  the 
people.  "See,"  said  the  Spaniards,  looking  up  at 
the  glorious  sky  with  its  great,  white  fleets  drawn  off 
upon  the  horizon  —  "see  —  heaven  smiles  upon  the 
bull-fight!" 

In  the  high  upper  seats  of  the  rude  amphitheatre  sat 
the  gayly-decked  wives  and  daughters  of  the  Gascons, 
from  the  metaries  along  the  Ridge,  and  the  chattering 
Spanish  women  of  the  Market,  their  shining  hair  un- 
bonneted  to  the  sun.  Next  below  were  their  husbands 
and  lovers  in  Sunday  blouses,  milkmen,  butchers, 
bakers,  black-bearded  fishermen,  Sicilian  fruiterers, 
swarthy  Portuguese  sailors,  in  little  woollen  caps,  and 
strangers  of  the  graver  sort ;  mariners  of  England, 
Germany,  and  Holland.  The  lowest  seats  were  full  of 
trappers,  smugglers,  Canadian  voyageurs,  drinking 
and  singing;  Americains,  too  —  more's  the  shame  — 
from  the  upper  rivers  —  who  will  not  keep  their  seats 
— who  ply  the  bottle,  and  who  will  get  home  by  and 
by  and  tell  how  wicked  Sodom  is ;  broad-brimmed, 
silver-braided  Mexicans,  too,  with  their  copper  cheeks 
and  bat's  eyes,  and  their  tinkling  spurred  heels.  Yon- 
der, in  that  quieter  section,  are  the  quadroon  women 
in  their  black  lace  shawls  —  and  there  is  Baptiste  ;  and 
below  them  are  the  turban ed  black  women,  and  there 
is  —  but  he  vanishes  —  Colossus. 

The  afternoon  is  advancing,  yet  the  sport,  though 
loudly  demanded,  does  not  begin.  The  Americains 
grow  derisive  and  find  pastime  in  gibes  and  raillery. 


1G4  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

They  mock  the  various  Latins  with  their  national 
inflections,  and  answer  their  scowls  with  laughter. 
Some  of  the  more  aggressive  shout  pretty  French 
greetings  to  the  women  of  Gascony,  and  one  barge- 
man, amid  peals  of  applause,  stands  on  a  seat  and 
hurls  a  kiss  to  the  quadroons.  The  mariners  of  Eng- 
land, Germany,  and  Holland,  as  spectators,  like  the 
fan,  while  the  Spaniards  look  black  and  cast  defiant 
imprecations  upon  their  persecutors.  Some  Gascons, 
with  timely  caution,  pick  their  women  out  and  depart, 
running  a  terrible  fire  of  gallantries. 

In  hope  of  truce,  a  new  call  is  raised  for  the  bull : 
"  The  bull,  the  bull !  —  hush  !  " 

In  a  tier  near  the  ground  a  man  is  standing  and 
calling  —  standing  head  and  shoulders  above  the  rest 
—  calling  in  the  Americaine  tongue.  Another  man, 
big  and  red,  named  Joe,  and  a  handsome  little  Creole 
in  elegant  dress  and  full  of  laughter,  wish  to  stop  him, 
but  the  flat-boatmen,  ha-ha-ing  and  cheering,  will  not 
suffer  it.  Ah,  through  some  shameful  knavery  of  the 
men,  into  whose  hands  he  has  fallen,  he  is  drunk ! 
Even  the  women  can  see  that ;  and  now  he  throws  his 
arms  wildly  and  raises  his  voice  until  the  whole  great 
circle  hears  it.     He  is  preaching  ! 

Ah  !  kind  Lord,  for  a  special  providence  now  !  The 
men  of  his  own  nation  —  men  from  the  land  of  the  open 
English  Bible  and  temperance  cup  and  song  are  cheering 
him  on  to  mad  disgrace.  And  now  another  call  for  the 
appointed  sport  is  drowned  by  the  flat-boatmen  singing 
the  ancient  tune  of  Mear.  You  can  hear  the  words  — 
"  Old  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  soul " 


"POSSON  JONE\"  165 

—  from  ribald  lips  and  throats  turned  brazen  with 
laughter,  from  singers  who  toss  their  hats  aloft  and 
roll  in  their  seats  ;  the  chorus  swells  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  thousand  brogans  — 

"He  used  to  wear  an  old  gray  coat 
All  buttoned  down  before." 

A  ribboned  man  in  the  arena  is  trying  to  be  heard, 
and  the  Latins  raise  one  mighty  cry  for  silence.  The 
big  reel  man  gets  a  hand  over  the  parson's  mouth,  and 
the  ribboned  man  seizes  his  moment. 

"They  have  been  endeavoring  for  hours,"  he  says, 
"  to  draw  the  terrible  animals  from  their  dens,  but 
such  is  their  strength  and  fierceness,  that  "  — 

His  voice  is  drowned.  Enough  has  been  heard  to 
warrant  the  inference  that  the  beasts  cannot  be 
whipped  out  of  the  storm-drenched  cages  to  which 
menagerie-life  and  long  starvation  have  attached  them, 
and  from  the  roar  of  indignation  the  man  of  ribbons 
flies.  The  noise  increases.  Men  are  standing  up  by 
hundreds,  and  women  are  imploring  to  be  let  out  of 
the  turmoil.  All  at  once,  like  the  bursting  of  a  dam, 
the  whole  mass  pours  down  into  the  ring.  They 
sweep  across  the  arena  and  over  the  showman's  bar- 
riers. Miguel  gets  a  frightful  trampling.  Who  cares 
for  gates  or  doors?  They  tear  the  beasts'  houses  bar 
from  bar,  and,  laying  hold  of  the  gaunt  buffalo,  drag 
him  forth  by  feet,  ears,  and  tail;  and  in  the  midst  of 
the  melee,  still  head  and  shoulders  above  all,  wilder, 
with  the  cup  of  the  wicked,  than  any  beast,  is  the  man 
of  God  from  the  Florida  parishes  ! 


106  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

In  his  arms  he  bore  —  and  all  the  people  shouted  at 
once  when  they  saw  it  —  the  tiger.  He  had  lifted  it 
high  up  with  its  back  to  his  breast,  his  arms  clasped 
under  its  shoulders  ;  the  wretched  brute  had  curled  up 
caterpillar-wise,  with  its  long  tail  against  its  belly,  and 
through  its  filed  teeth  grinned  a  fixed  and  impotent 
wrath.     And  Parson  Jones  was  shouting  : 

' '  The  tiger  and  the  buffl er  shell  lay  down  together  ! 
You  dah  to  say  they  shayn't  and  I'll  comb  you  with 
this  varmint  from  head  to  foot !  The  tiger  and  the 
buffler  shell  lay  down  together.  They  shell!  Now, 
you,  Joe !  Behold  !  I  am  here  to  see  it  done.  The 
lion  and  the  buffler  shell  lay  down  together ! ' ' 

Mouthing  these  words  again  and  again,  the  parson 
forced  his  way  through  the  surge  in  the  wake  of  the 
buffalo.  This  creature  the  Latins  had  secured  by  a 
lariat  over  his  head,  and  were  dragging  across  the  old 
rampart  and  into  a  street  of  the  city. 

The  northern  races  were  trying  to  prevent,  and  there 
was  pommelling  and  knocking  down,  cursing  and  knife- 
drawing,  until  Jules  St.-Ange  was  quite  carried  away 
with  the  fun,  laughed,  clapped  his  hands,  and  swore 
with  delight,  and  ever  kept  close  to  the  gallant  parson. 

Joe,  contrariwise,  counted  all  this  child's-play  an 
interruption.  He  had  come  to  find  Colossus  and  the 
money.  In  an  unlucky  moment  he  made  bold  to 
lay  hold  of  the  parson,  but  a  piece  of  the  broken  bar- 
riers in  the  hands  of  a  fiat-boatman  felled  him  to  the 
sod,  the  terrible  crowd  swept  over  him,  the  lariat  was 
cut  and  the  giant  parson  hurled  the  tiger  upon  the 
buffalo's  back.     In  another  instant  both  brutes  were 


"POSSON  JONE\"  167 

dead  at  the  hands  of  the  mob ;  Jones  was  lifted  from 
his  feet,  and  prating  of  Scripture  and  the  millennium, 
of  Paul  at  Ephesus  and  Daniel  in  the  "  burner's  "  den, 
was  borne  aloft  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  huzzaing 
Americains.  Half  an  hour  later  he  was  sleeping 
heavily  on  the  floor  of  a  cell  in  the  calaboza. 

When  Parson  Jones  awoke,  a  bell  was  somewhere 
tolling  for  midnight.  Somebody  was  at  the  door  of 
his  cell  with  a  key.  The  lock  grated,  the  door  swung, 
the  turnkey  looked  in  and  stepped  back,  and  a  ray  of 
moonlight  fell  upon  M.  Jules  St.-Ange.  The  prisoner 
sat  upon  the  empty  shackles  and  ring-bolt  in  the  centre 
of  the  floor. 

"  Misty  Posson  Jone',"  said  the  visitor,  softly. 

"O  Jools!" 

"  Mais,  w'at  de  matter,  Posson  Jone'  ?" 

"  My  sins,  Jools,  my  sins  !  " 

"Ah!  Posson  Jone',  is  that  something  to  cry, 
because  a  man  get  sometime  a  litt'  bit  intoxicate? 
Mais,  if  a  man  keep  all  the  time  intoxicate,  I  think 
that  is  again'  the  conscien'." 

"Jools,  Jools,  your  eyes  is  darkened  —  oh!  Jools, 
where's  my  pore  old  niggah?  " 

"  Posson  Jone',  never  min'  ;  he  is  wid  Baptiste." 

"Where?" 

"I  don'  know  w'ere  —  mais  he  is  wid  Baptiste. 
Baptiste  is  a  beautiful  to  take  care  of  somebody." 

"Is   he   as  good   as  you,   Jools?"   asked  Parsons- 
Jones,  sincerely. 

Jules  was  slightly  staggered. 

"You   know,  Posson   Jone',  you  know,   a  nigger 


168  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

cannot  be  good  as  a  w'ite  man  —  metis  Eaptiste  is  a 
good  nigger." 

The  parson  moaned  and  dropped  his  chin  into  his 
hands. 

"I  was  to  of  left  for  home  to-morrow,  sun-up,  on 
the  Isabella  schooner.  Pore  Smyrny!"  He  deeply 
sighed. 

"  Posson  Jone',"  said  Jules,  leaning  against  the 
wall  and  smiling,  "  I  swear  you  is  the  moz  funny  man 
I  ever  see.  If  I  was  you  I  would  say,  me,  '  Ah !  'ow 
I  am  lucky!  the  money  I  los',  it  was  not  mine,  any- 
how !  '  My  faith  !  shall  a  man  make  hisse'f  to  be  the 
more  sorry  because  the  money  he  los'  is  not  his?  Me, 
I  would  sa3',  '  it  is  a  specious  providence.' 

"Ah!  Misty  Posson  Jone',"  he  continued,  "you 
make  a  so  droll  sermon  ad  the  bull-ring.  Ha !  ha ! 
I  swear  I  thing  you  can  make  money  to  preach  thad 
sermon  many  time  ad  the  theatre  St.  Philippe.  Hah  ! 
you  is  the  moz  brave  dat  I  never  see,  metis  ad  the 
same  time  the  moz  rilligious  man.  Where  I'm  goin'  to 
fin'  one  priest  to  make  like  dat?  Mais,  why  you 
can't  cheer  up  an'  be  'appy?  Me,  if  I  should  be  mis- 
erabF  like  that  I  would  kill  meself." 

The  countryman  only  shook  his  head. 

"  Bieii,  Posson  Jone',  I  have  the  so  good  news  for 
you." 

The  prisoner  looked  up  with  eager  inquiry. 

"Las'  evening  when  they  lock'  you,  I  come  right 
off  at  M.  De  Blanc's  house  to  get  you  let  outofde 
calaboose  ;  M.  De  Blanc  he  is  the  judge.  So  soon  I 
was  entering  —  '  Ah !  Jules,  me  boy,  juz  the  man  to 


"POSSON  JONE\"  169 

make  complete  the  game ! '  Posson  Jone' ,  it  was  a 
specious  providence !  I  win  in  free  hours  more  dan 
six  hundred  dollah !  Look."  He  produced  a  mass 
of  bank-notes,  bons,  and  due-bills. 

"And  you  got  the  pass?"  asked  the  parson,  re- 
garding the  money  with  a  sadness  incomprehensible 
to  Jules. 

"  It  is  here  ;  it  take  the  effect  so  soon  the  daylight." 

"  Jools,  my  friend,  your  kindness  is  in  vain." 

The  Creole's  face  became  a  perfect  blank. 

"Because,"  said  the  parson,  "for  two  reasons: 
firstly,  I  have  broken  the  laws,  and  ought  to  stand 
the  penalty  ;  and  secondly  —  you  must  really  excuse 
me,  Jools,  you  know,  but  the  pass  has  been  got  on- 
fairly,  I'm  afeerd.  You  told  the  judge  I  was  inno- 
cent ;  and  in  neither  case  it  don't  become  a  Christian 
(which  I  hope  I  can  still  say  I  am  one)  to  '  do  evil 
that  good  may  come.'     I  muss  stay." 

M.  St.-Ange  stood  up  aghast,  and  for  a  moment 
speechless,  at  this  exhibition  of  moral  heroism ;  but 
an  artifice  was  presently  hit  upon.  "  Mais,  Posson 
Jone'  !  "  —  in  his  old  falsetto  —  "  de  order  —  you  can- 
not read  it,  it  is  in  French  —  compel  you  to  go  hout, 
sir!" 

"  Is  that  so?  "  cried  the  parson,  bounding  up  with 
radiant  face  —  "is  that  so,  Jools?" 

The  young  man  nodded,  smiling ;  but,  though  he 
smiled,  the  fountain  of  his  tenderness  was  opened.  He 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  as  the  parson  knelt  in 
prayer,  and  even  whispered  "  Hail  Mary,"  etc.,  quite 
through,  twice  over. 


170  OLD   CBEOLE  DAYS. 

Morning  broke  in  summer  glory  upon  a  cluster  of 
villas  behind  the  city,  nestled  under  live-oaks  and 
magnolias  on  the  banks  of  a  deep  bayou,  and  known 
as  Suburb  St.  Jean. 

"With  the  first  beam  came  the  West-Floridian  and 
the  Creole  out  upon  the  bank  below  the  village.  Upon 
the  parson's  arm  hung  a  pair  of  antique  saddle-bags. 
Baptiste  limped  wearily  behind ;  both  his  eyes  were 
encircled  with  broad,  blue  rings,  and  one  cheek-bone 
bore  the  official  impress  of  every  knuckle  of  Colossus's 
left  hand.  The  "  beautiful  to  take  care  of  somebody  " 
had  lost  his  charge.  At  mention  of  the  negro  he  be- 
came wild,  and,  half  in  English,  half  in  the  "  gumbo  " 
dialect,  said  murderous  things.  Intimidated  by  Jules 
to  calmness,  he  became  able  to  speak  confidently  on 
one  point ;  he  could,  would,  and  did  swear  that  Colos- 
sus had  gone  home  to  the  Florida  parishes ;  he  was 
almost  certain  ;  in  fact,  he  thought  so. 

There  was  a  clicking  of  pulleys  as  the  three  ap- 
peared upon  the  bayou's  margin,  and  Baptiste  pointed 
out,  in  the  deep  shadow  of  a  great  oak,  the  Isabella, 
moored  among  the  bulrushes,  and  just  spreading  her 
sails  for  departure.  Moving  down  to  where  she  lay, 
the  parson  and  his  friend  paused  on  the  bank,  loath 
to  say  farewell. 

"O  Jools !  "  said  the  parson,  "  supposin'  Colossus 
ain't  gone  home !  O  Jools,  if  you'll  look  him  out 
for  me,  I'll  never  forget  you  —  I'll  never  forget  you, 
nohow,  Jools.  No,  Jools,  I  never  will  believe  he 
taken  that  money.  Yes,  I  know  all  niggahs  will 
steal" — he  set  foot  upon  the  gang-plank — "but 
Colossus  wouldn't  steal  from  me.     Good-by." 


"POSSON  JONE'."  171 

"  Misty  Posson  Jone,'"  said  St.-Ange,  putting  his 
hand  on  the  parson's  arm  with  genuine  affection, 
"  hoi'  on.  You  see  dis  money  —  w'at  I  win  las'  night? 
Well,  I  win'  it  by  a  specious  providence,  ain't  it?  " 

"There's  no  tellin',"  said  the  humbled  Jones. 
"Providence 

'  Moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform.'  " 

"Ah!"  cried  the  Creole,  "c'est  very  true.  I  ged 
this  money  in  the  mysterieuze  way.  Mais,  if  I  keep 
dis  money,  you  know  where  it  goin'  be  to-night?  " 

"I  really  can't  say,"  replied  the  parson. 

"  Goin'  to  de  dev',"  said  the  sweetly-smiling  young 
man. 

The  schooner-captain,  leaning  against  the  shrouds, 
and  even  Baptiste,  laughed  outright. 

"  O  Jools,  you  mustn't!  " 

"  Well,  den,  w'at  I  shall  do  wid  it  V ' 

"Anything!"  answered  the  parson;  "better  do- 
nate it  away  to  some  poor  man"  — 

"Ah!  Misty  Posson  Jone',  dat  is  w'at  I  want. 
You  los'  five  hondred  dollar'  —  'twas  me  fault." 

"No,  it  wa'n't,  Jools." 

"  Mais,  it  was  !  " 

"No!" 

"  It  ivas  me  fault !  I  sivear  it  was  me  fault !  Mais, 
here  is  five  hondred  dollar'  ;  I  wish  you  shall  take  it. 
Here  !  I  don't  got  no  use  for  money.  —  Oh,  my  faith  ! 
Posson  Jone',  you  must  not  begin  to  cry  some  more." 

Parson  Jones  was  choked  with  tears.  When  he 
found  voice  he  said : 


172  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

"O  Jools,  Jools,  Jools !  nry  pore,  noble,  dear,  mis- 
guidened  friend  !  ef  you  lied  of  bed  a  Christian  raisin'  ! 
May  the  Lord  show  you  your  errors  better'n  I  kin, 
and  bless  you  for  your  good  intentions  —  oh,  no  !  I 
cayn't  touch  that  money  with  a  ten-foot  pole ;  it  wa'n't 
rightly  got ;  you  must  really  excuse  me,  my  dear 
friend,  but  I  cayn't  touch  it." 

St.-Ange  was  petrified. 

"  Good-by,  dear  Jools,"  continued  the  parson. 
"I'm  in  the  Lord's  haynds,  and  he's  very  merciful, 
which  I  hope  and  trust  you'll  find  it  out.  Good-by !  " 
—  the  schooner  swang  slowly  off  before  the  breeze  — 
"good-by!" 

St.-Ange  roused  himself. 

"Posson  Jone'  !  make  me  hany'ow  clis  promise  :  you 
never,  never,  never  will  come  back  to  New  Orleans." 

"Ah,  Jools,  the  Lord  willin',  I'll  never  leave  home 
again  !  ' ' 

"All  right!"  cried  the  Creole;  "I  thing  he's 
willin'.  Adieu,  Posson  Jone'.  My  faith' !  you  are 
the  so  fighting  an'  moz  rilligious  man  as  I  never  saw  ! 
Adieu  !  Adieu  ! ' ' 

Baptiste  uttered  a  cry  and  presently  ran  by  his  mas- 
ter toward  the  schooner,  his  hands  full  of  clods. 

St.-Ange  looked  just  in  time  to  see  the  sable  form 
of  Colossus  of  Rhodes  emerge  from  the  vessel's  hold, 
and  the  pastor  of  Smyrna  and  Bethesda  seize  him  in 
his  embrace. 

"O  Colossus!  you  outlandish  old  nigger!  Thank 
the  Lord  !    Thank  the  Lord  !  " 

The  little  Creole  almost  wept.     He  ran  down  the 


"POSSON  JONE'."  173 

tow-path,  laughing  and  swearing,  and  making  confused 
allusion  to  the  entire  personnel  and  furniture  of  the 
lower  regions. 

By  odd  fortune,  at  the  moment  that  St.-Ange  fur- 
ther demonstrated  his  delight  by  tripping  his  mulatto 
iiito  a  bog,  the  schooner  came  brushing  along  the 
reedy  bank  with  a  graceful  curve,  the  sails  flapped, 
and  the  crew  fell  to  poling  her  slowly  along. 

Parson  Jones  was  on  the  deck,  kneeling  once  more 
in  prayer.  His  hat  had  fallen  before  him  ;  behind 
him  knelt  his  slave.  In  thundering  tones  he  was  con- 
fessing himself  "a  plum  fool,"  from  whom  "the 
conceit  had  been  jolted  out,"  and  who  had  been  made 
to  see  that  even  his  "  nigger  had  the  longest  head  of 
the  two." 

Colossus  clasped  his  hands  and  groaned. 

The  parson  prayed  for  a  contrite  heart. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  cried  Colossus. 

The  master  acknowledged  countless  mercies. 

"  Dat's  so  !  "  cried  the  slave. 

The  master  prayed  that  they  might  still  be  "piled 
on." 

"Glory!"  cried  the  black  man,  clapping  his 
hands  ;   "  pile  on  !  " 

"  An'  now,"  continued  the  parson,  "  bring  this  pore, 
backslidin'  jackace  of  a  parson  and  this  pore  ole  fool 
nigger  back  to  thar  home  in  peace  !  " 

"  Pray  fo'  de  money  !  "  called  Colossus. 

But  the  parson  prayed  for  Jules. 

'  'JPray  f  o'  de  money ! ' '  repeated  the  negro. 

"And  oh,  give  thy  servant  back  that  there  lost 
money 


i  " 


174  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

Colossus  rose  stealthily,  and  tiptoed  by  his  still 
shouting  master.  St.-Ange,  the  captain,  the  crew, 
gazed  in  silent  wonder  at  the  strategist.  Pausing  but 
an  instant  over  the  master's  hat  to  grin  an  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  beholders'  speechless  interest,  he 
softly  placed  in  it  the  faithfully-mourned  and  houestly- 
prayed-for  Smyrna  fund  ;  then,  saluted  by  the  gesticu- 
lative,  silent  applause  of  St.-Ange  and  the  schooner- 
men,  he  resumed  his  first  attitude  behind  his  roaring 
master. 

"  Amen  !  "  cried  Colossus,  meaning  to  bring  him  to 
a  close. 

"  Onworthy  though  I  be  "  —  cried  Jones. 

"  Amen!  "  reiterated  the  negro. 

"  A-a-amen  !  "  said  Parson  Jones. 

Pie  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  stooping  to  take  up  his  hat, 
beheld  the  well-known  roll.  As  one  stunned,  he 
gazed  for  a  moment  upon  his  slave,  who  still  knelt 
with  clasped  hands  and  rolling  eyeballs  ;  but  when  he 
became  aware  of  the  laughter  and  cheers  that  greeted 
him  from  both  deck  and  shore,  he  lifted  eyes  and 
hands  to  heaven,  and  cried  like  the  veriest  babe. 
And  when  he  looked  at  the  roll  again,  and  hugged  and 
kissed  it,  St.-Ange  tried  to  raise  a  second  shout,  but 
choked,  and  the  crew  fell  to  their  poles. 

And  now  up  runs  Baptiste,  covered  with  slime,  and 
prepares  to  cast  his  projectiles.  The  first  one  fell 
wide  of  the  mark ;  the  schooner  swung  round  into  a 
long  reach  of  water,  where  the  breeze  was  in  her 
favor ;  another  shout  of  laughter  drowned  the  male- 
dictions of  the  muddy  man  ;  the  sails  filled  ;  Colossus 


"POSSON  JONE\"  175 

of  Rhodes,  smiling  and  bowing  as  hero  of  the  mo- 
ment, ducked  as  the  main  boom  swept  round,  and  the 
schooner,  leaning  slightly  to  the  pleasant  influence, 
rustled  a  moment  over  the  bulrushes,  and  then  sped 
far  away  down  the  rippling  baj^ou. 

M.  Jules  St.-Ange  stood  long,  gazing  at  the  reced- 
ing vessel  as  it  now  disappeared,  now  re-appeared  be- 
yond the  tops  of  the  high  undergrowth ;  but,  when  an 
arm  of  the  forest  hid  it  finally  from  sight,  he  turned 
townward,  followed  by  that  fagged-out  spaniel,  his 
servant,  saying,  as  he  turned,  "  Baptiste." 

"  You  know  w'at  I  goin'  do  wid  dis  money?  " 

"  Non,  m'sieio'." 

""Well,  3rou  can  strike  me  dead  if  I  den't  goin'  to 
pay  hall  my  debts  !     Allons ! " 

He  began  a  merry  little  song  to  the  effect  that  his 
sweetheart  was  a  wine-bottle,  and  "niaster  and  man, 
leaving  care  behind,  returned  to  the  picturesque  Rue 
Royale.  The  ways  of  Providence  are  indeed  strange. 
In  all  Parson  Jones's  after-life,  amid  the  many  painful 
reminiscences  of  his  visit  to  the  City  of  the  Plain,  the 
sweet  knowledge  was  withheld  from  him  that  by  the 
light  of  the  Christian  virtue  that  shone  from  him  even 
in  his  great  fall,  Jules  St.-Ange  arose,  and  went  to 
his  father  an  honest  man* 


jean-ah   Poquelin. 


JEAN-AH   POQUELIN. 


7*  the  first  decade  of  the  present  century,  when  the 
newly  established  American  Government  was  the  most 
hateful  thing  in  Louisiana  —  when  the  Creoles  were 
still  kicking  at  such  vile  innovations  as  the  trial  by 
jury,  American  dances,  anti-smuggling  laws,  and  the 
printing  of  the  Governor's  proclamation  in  English  — 
when  the  Anglo-American  flood  that  was  presently  to 
burst  in  a  crevasse  of  immigration  upon  the  delta  had 
thus  far  been  felt  only  as  slippery  seepage  which  made 
the  Creole  tremble  for  his  footing  —  there  stood,  a 
short  distance  above  what  is  now  Canal  Street,  and 
considerably  back  from  the  line  of  villas  which  fringed 
the  river-bank  on  Tchoupitoulas  Road,  an  old  colonial 
plantation-house  half  in  ruin. 

It  stood  aloof  from  civilization,  the  tracts  that  had 
once  been  its  indigo  fields  given  over  to  their  first  nox- 
ious wildness,  and  grown  up  into  one  of  the  horridest 
marshes  within  a  circuit  of  fifty  miles. 

The  house  was  of  heavy  cypress,  lifted  up  on  pil- 
lars, grim,  solid,  and  spiritless,  its  massive  build  a 
strong  reminder  of  days  still  earlier,  when  every  man 
had  been  his  own  peace  officer  and  the  insurrection  of 

179 


180  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

the  blacks  a  daily  contingency.  Its  dark,  weather- 
beaten  roof  and  sides  were  hoisted  up  above  the  jungly 
plain  in  a  distracted  way,  like  a  gigantic  amrnunition- 
' wagon  stuck  in  the  mud  and  abandoned  by  some 
retreating  army.  Around  it  was  a  dense  growth  of 
low  water  willows,  with  half  a  hundred  sorts  of  thorny 
or  fetid  bushes,  savage  strangers  alike  to  the  "lan- 
guage of  flowers  "  and  to  the  botanist's  Greek.  They 
were  hung  with  countless  strands  of  discolored  and 
prickly  smilax,  and  the  impassable  mud  below  bristled 
with  chevaux  clef  rise  of  the  dwarf  palmetto.  Two  lone 
forest-trees,  dead  cypresses,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
marsh,  dotted  with  roosting  vultures.  The  shallow 
strips  of  water  were  hid  by  myriads  of  aquatic  plants, 
under  whose  coarse  and  spiritless  flowers,  could  one 
have  seen  it,  was  a  harbor  of  reptiles,  great  and  small, 
to  make  one  shudder  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

The  house  was  on  a  slightly  raised  spot,  the  levee 
of  a  draining  canal.  The  waters  of  this  canal  did  not 
run  ;  they  crawled,  and  were  full  of  big,  ravening  fish 
and  alligators,  that  held  it  against  all  comers. 

Such  was  the  home  of  old  Jean  Marie  Poquelin,  once 
an  opulent  indigo  planter,  standing  high  in  the  esteem 
of  his  small,  proud  circle  of  exclusively  male  acquaint- 
ances in  the  old  city  ;  now  a  hermit,  alike  shunned  by 
and  shunning  all  who  had  ever  known  him.  "The 
last  of  his  line,"  said  the  gossips.  His  father  lies 
under  the  floor  of  the  St.  Louis  Cathedral,  with  the 
wife  of  his  youth  on  one  side,  and  the  wife  of  his  old 
age  on  the  other.  Old  Jean  visits  the  spot  daily.  His 
half-brother  —  alas !    there   was   a   mystery ;    no   one 


JEAN-AE  POQTJELIN.  181 

knew  what  had  become  of  the  gentle,  yoimg  half- 
brother,  more  than  thirty  years  his  junior,  whom  once 
he  seemed  so  fondly  to  love,  but  who,  seven  years  ago, 
had  disappeared  suddenly,  once  for  all,  and  left  no 
clew  of  his  fate. 

They  had  seemed  to  live  so  happily  in  each  other's 
love.  No  father,  mother,  wife  to  either,  no  kindred 
upon  earth.  The  elder  a  bold,  frank,  impetuous,  chiv- 
alric  adventurer ;  the  younger  a  gentle,  studious,  book- 
loving  recluse  ;  they  lived  upon  the  ancestral  estate 
like  mated  birds,  one  always  on  the  wing,  the  other 
always  in  the  nest. 

There  was  no  trait  in  Jean  Marie  Poquelin,  said  the 
old  gossips,  for  which  he  was  so  well  known  among  his 
few  friends  as  his  apparent  fondness  for  his  ' '  little 
brother."  "Jacques  said  this,"  and  "Jacques  said 
that ;  "  he  "  would  leave  this  or  that,  or  any  thing  to 
Jacques,"  for  "Jacques  was  a  scholar,"  and  "Jacques 
was  good,"  or  "wise,"  or  "just,"  or  "far-sighted," 
as  the  nature  of  the  case  required;  and  "  he  should 
ask  Jacques  as  soon  as  he  got  home,"  since  Jacques 
was  never  elsewhere  to  be  seen. 

It  was  between  the  roving  character  of  the  one 
brother,  and  the  bookishness  of  the  other,  that  the 
estate  fell  into  decay.  Jean  Marie,  generous  gentle- 
man, gambled  the  slaves  away  one  by  one,  until  none 
was  left,  man  or  woman,  but  one  old  African  mute. 

The  indigo-fields  and  vats  of  Louisiana  had  been 
generally  abandoned  as  unremunerative.  Certain  en- 
terprising men  had  substituted  the  culture  of  sugar ; 
but  while   the  recluse  was  too  apathetic  to  take  so 


182  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

active  a  course,  the  other  saw  larger,  and,  at  that 
time,  equally  respectable  profits,  first  in  smuggling, 
and  later  in  the  African  slave-trade.  What  harm 
could  he  see  in  it?  The  whole  people  said  it  was 
vitally  necessary,  and  to  minister  to  a  vital  public 
necessity,  —  good  enough,  certainly,  and  so  he  laid  up 
many  a  doubloon,  that  made  him  none  the  worse  in  the 
public  regard. 

One  day  old  Jean  Marie  was  about  to  start  upon  a 
voyage  that  was  to  be  longer,  much  longer,  than  any 
that  he  had  yet  made.  Jacques  had  begged  him  hard 
for  many  days  not  to  go,  but  he  laughed  him  off,  and 
finally  said,  kissing  him  : 

"  Adieu,  'titfrdre." 

"  No,"  said  Jacques,  "  I  shall  go  with  you." 

They  left  the  old  hulk  of  a  house  in  the  sole  care  of 
the  African  mute,  and  went  away  to  the  Guinea  coast 
together. 

Two  years  after,  old  Poquelin  came  home  without 
his  vessel.  He  must  have  arrived  at  his  house  by 
night.  No  one  saw  him  come.  No  one  saw  "  his  little 
brother ;  "  rumor  whispered  that  he,  too,  had  returned, 
but  he  had  never  been  seen  again. 

A  dark  suspicion  fell  upon  the  old  slave-trader.  No 
matter  that  the  few  kept  the  many  reminded  of  the 
tenderness  that  had  ever  marked  his  bearing  to  the 
missing  man.  The  many  shook  their  heads.  "You 
kuow  he  has  a  quick  and  fearful  temper ;  "  and  "  why 
does  he  cover  his  loss  with  mystery  ?  "  "  Grief  would 
out  with  the  truth." 

"  But,"  said  the  charitable  few,  "  look  in  his  face  ; 


* 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN.  183 

see  that  expression  of  true  humanity."  The  many  did 
look  in  his  face,  and,  as  he  looked  in  theirs,  he  read 
the  silent  question:  "Where  is  thy  brother  Abel?" 
The  few  were  silenced,  his  former  friends  died  off,  and 
the  name  of  Jean  Marie  Poquelin  became  a  symbol  of 
witchery,  devilish  crime,  and  hideous  nursery  fictions. 

The  man  and  his  house  were  alike  shunned.  The 
snipe  and  duck  hunters  forsook  the  marsh,  and  the  wood- 
cutters abandoned  the  canal.  Sometimes  the  hardier 
boys  who  ventured  out  there  snake-shooting  heard 
a  slow  thumping  of  oar-locks  on  the  canal.  They 
would  look  at  each  other  for  a  moment  half  in  con- 
sternation, half  in  glee,  then  rush  from  their  sport  in 
wanton  haste  to  assail  with  their  gibes  the  unoffend- 
ing, withered  old  man  who,  in  rusty  attire,  sat  in  the 
stern  of  a  skiff,  rowed  homeward  by  his  white-headed 
African  mute. 

' '  O  Jean-ah  Poquelin !  O  Jean-ah !  Jean-ah  Poque- 
lin !  " 

It  was  not  necessary  to  utter  more  than  that.  No 
hint  of  wickedness,  deformity,  or  any  physical  or  moral 
demerit ;  merely  the  name  and  tone  of  mockery  :  "  Oh, 
Jean-ah  Poquelin  ! ' '  and  while  they  tumbled  one  over 
another  in  their  needless  haste  to  fly,  he  would  rise 
carefully  from  his  seat,  while  the  aged  mute,  with 
downcast  face,  went  on  rowing,  and  rolling  up  his 
brown  fist  and  extending  it  toward  the  urchins,  would 
pour  forth  such  an  unholy  broadside  of  French  impre- 
cation and  invective  as  would  all  but  craze  them  with 
delight. 

Among  both  blacks  and  whites  the  house  was  the! 


4 


184  OLD  CREOLE  DATS. 

object  of  a  thousand  superstitions.  Every  midnight, 
they  affirmed,  the  feu  follet  came  out  of  the  marsh  and 
ran  in  and  out  of  the  rooms,  flashing  from  -window  to 
window.  The  story  of  some  lads,  whose  words  in  or- 
dinary statements  was  worthless,  was  generally  cred- 
ited, that  the  night  they  camped  in  the  woods,  rather 
than  pass  the  place  after  dark,  they  saw,  about  sunset, 
every  window  blood-red,  and  on  each  of  the  four  chim- 
neys an  owl  sitting,  which  turned  his  head  three  times 
round,  and  moaned  and  laughed  with  a  human  voice. 
There  was  a  bottomless  well,  everybody  professed  to 
know,  beneath  the  sill  of  the  big  front  door  under  the 
rotten  veranda  ;  whoever  set  his  foot  upon  that  thresh- 
old disappeared  forever  in  the  depth  below. 

"What  wonder  the   marsh   grew  as  wild  as  Africa ! 
Take  all  the  Faubourg  Ste.  Marie,  and  half  the  ancient 
city,  you  would  not  find  one  graceless  dare-devil  reck- 
less  enough  to  pass  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the 
,  house  after  nightfall. 

The  alien  races  pouring  into  old  New  Orleans  began 
to  find  the  few  streets  named  for  the  Bourbon  princes 
too  strait  for  them.  The  wheel  of  fortune,  beginning 
to  whirl,  threw  them  off  beyond  the  ancient  corpo- 
ration lines,  and  sowed  civilization  and  even  trade 
upon  the  lands  of  the  Graviers  and  Girods.  Fields 
became  roads,  roads  streets.  Everywhere  the  leveller 
was  peering  through  his  glass,  rodsmen  were  whacking 
their  way  through  willow-brakes  and  rose-hedges,  and 
the  sweating  Irishmen  tossed  the  blue  clay  up  with 
their  long-handled  shovels. 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN.  185 

"  Ha  !  that  is  all  very  well,"  quoth  the  Jean-Baptistes, 
feeling  the  reproach  of  an  enterprise  that  asked  neither 
co-operation  nor  advice  of  them,  "but  wait  till  they 
come  yonder  to  Jean  Poquelin's  marsh  ;  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  " 
The  supposed  predicament  so  delighted  them,  that  they 
put  on  a  mock  terror  and  whirled  about  in  an  assumed 
stampede,  then  caught  their  clasped  hands  between 
their  knees  in  excess  of  mirth,  and  laughed  till  the 
tears  ran  ;  for  whether  the  street-makers  mired  in  the 
marsh,  or  contrived  to  cut  through  old  "  Jean-ah's  " 
property,  either  event  would  be  joyful.  Meantime  a 
line  of  tiny  rods,  with  bits  of  white  paper  in  their  split 
tops,  gradually  extended  its  way  straight  through  the 
haunted  ground,  and  across  the  canal  diagonally. 

"We  shall  fill  that  ditch,"  said  the  men  in  mud- 
boots,  and  brushed  close  along  the  chained  and  pad- 
locked gate  of  the  haunted  mansion.  Ah,  Jean-ah 
Poquelin,  those  were  not  Creole  boys,  to  be  stampeded 
with  a  little  hard  swearing. 

He  went  to  the  Governor.  That  official  scanned  the 
odd  figure  with  no  slight  interest.  Jean  Poquelin  was 
of  short,  broad  frame,  with  a  bronzed  leonine  face. 
His  brow  was  ample  and  deeply  furrowed.  His  eye, 
large  and  black,  was  bold  and  open  like  that  of  a 
war-horse,  and  his  jaws  shut  together  with  the  firm- 
ness of  iron.  He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  Attakapas 
cottonade,  and  his  shirt  unbuttoned  and  thrown  back 
from  the  throat  and  bosom,  sailor-wise,  showed  a  her- 
culean breast,  hard  and  grizzled.  There  was  no  fierce- 
ness or  defiance  in  his  look,  no  harsh  ungentleness, 
no  symptom  of  his  unlawful  life  or  violent  temper ;  but 


186  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

rather  a  peaceful  and  peaceable  fearlessness.  Across 
the  whole  face,  not  marked  in  one  or  another  feature, 
but  as  it  were  laid  softly  upon  the  countenance  like  an 
almost  imperceptible  veil,  was  the  imprint  of  some 
great  grief.  A  careless  eye  might  easily  overlook 
it,  but,  once  seen,  there  it  hung  —  faint,  but  unmis- 
takable. 

The  Governor  bowed. 

"  Parlez-vous  frangais?  "  asked  the  figure. 

"I  would  rather  talk  English,  if  you  can  do  so," 
said  the  Governor. 

"  My  name,  Jean  Poquelin." 

"  How  can  I  serve  you,  Mr.  Poquelin?" 

"  My  'ouse  is  yond'  ;  dans  le  marais  la-bas." 

The  Governor  bowed. 

"  Dat  marais  billong  to  me." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  To  me  ;  Jean  Poquelin  ;  I  hown  'im  meself." 

"Well,  sir?" 

"He  don't  billong  to  you ;  I  get  him  from  me 
father." 

"That  is  perfectly  true,  Mr.  Poquelin,  as  far  as  I 
am  aware." 

"  You  want  to  make  strit  pass  j^ond'  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir;  it  is  quite  probable;  but  the 
city  will  indemnify  you  for  any  loss  you  may  suffer  — 
you  will  get  paid,  3*011  understand." 

"  Strit  can't  pass  dare." 

"You  will  have  to  see  the  municipal  authorities 
about  that,  Mr.  Poquelin." 

A  bitter  smile  came  upon  the  old  man's  face : 


* 


JEAN-AU  POQUELIN.  187 

"  Pardon,  Monsieur,  you  is  not  le  Gouvemeur?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Mais,  yes.  You  liar  le  Gouvemeur  —  yes.  Veh- 
well.  I  come  to  you.  I  tell  you,  strit  can't  pass  at 
me  'ouse." 

"  But  you  will  have  to  see  "  — 

"I  come  to  you.  You  is  le  Gouvemeur.  I  know 
not  the  new  laws.  I  ham  a  Fr-r-rench-a- man ! 
Fr-rench-a-man  have  something  alter  au  contraire  — 
he  come  at  his  Gouvemeur.  I  come  at  you.  If  me  not 
had  been  bought  from  me  king  like  bossals  in  the  hold 
time,  ze  king  gof  —  France  would-a-show  Monsieur  le 
Gouvemeur  to  take  care  his  men  to  make  strit  in  right 
places.  Mais,  I  know ;  we  billong  to  Monsieur  le 
President.     I  want  you  do  somes  in  for  me,  eh?  " 

"  What  is  it?  "    asked  the  patient  Governor. 

"I  want  3rou   tell  3Ionsieur   le   President,   strit—    \ 
can't  —  pass  —  at  —  me  —  'ouse. ' ' 

"Have  a  chair,  Mr.  Poquelin ; "  but  the  old  man 
did  not  stir.  The  Governor  took  a  quill  and  wrote  a 
line  to  a  city  official,  introducing  Mr.  Poquelin,  and 
asking  for  him  every  possible  courtesy.  He  handed  it 
to  him,  instructing  him  where  to  present  it. 

"  Mr.  Poquelin,"  he  said,  with  a  conciliatory  smile, 
"  tell  me,  is  it  your  house  that  our  Creole  citizens  tell 
such  odd  stories  about  ? ' ' 

The  old  man  glared  sternly  upon  the  speaker,  and 
with  immovable  features  said  : 

"You  don't  see  me  trade  some  Guinea  nigga'  ?  " 

"Oh,  no." 

"  You  don't  see  me  make  some  smugglin'  ?  " 


188  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

"  No,  sir  ;  not  at  all." 

"  But,  I  am  Jean  Marie  Poquclin.  I  mine  me  hown 
bizniss.     Dat  all  right?     Adieu." 

He  put  his  hat  on  and  withdrew.  By  and  by  he 
stood,  letter  in  hand,  before  the  person  to  whom  it  was 
addressed.     This  person  employed  an  interpreter. 

"He  says,"  said  the  interpreter  to  the  officer,  "he 
come  to  make  you  the  fair  warning  how  you  muz  not 
make  the  street  pas'  at  his  'ouse." 

The  officer  remarked  that  ' '  such  impudence  was  re- 
freshing ;  "  but  the  experienced  interpreter  translated 
freely. 

"He  says:  'Why  you  don't  want?'"  said  the 
interpreter. 

The  old  slave-trader  answered  at  some  length. 

"He  says,"  said  the  interpreter,  again  turning  to 
-the  officer,  "the  marass  is  a  too  unhealth'  for  peopl' 
'  to  live." 

"But  we  expect  to  drain  his  old  marsh;  it's  not 
going  to  be  a  marsh." 

' '  B  dit ' '  —    The  interpreter  explained  in  French. 

The  old  man  answered  tersely. 

"He  says  the  canal  is  a  private,"  said  the  inter- 
preter. 

"Oh!  that  old  ditch;  that's  to  be  filled  up.  Tell 
the  old  man  we're  going  to  fix  him  up  nicely." 

Translation  being  duly  made,  the  man  in  power  was 
amused  to  see  a  thunder-cloud  gathering  on  the  old 
man's  face. 

"Tell  him,"  he  added,  "by  the  time  we  finish, 
there'll  not  be  a  ghost  left  in  his  shanty." 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN.  189 

The  interpreter  began  to  translate,  but  — 

"  J'  comprends,  J'  comprends,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  an  impatient  gesture,  and  burst  forth,  pouring 
curses  upon  the  United  States,  the  President,  the  Ter- 
ritory of  Orleans,  Congress,  the  Governor  and  all  his 
subordinates,  striding  out  of  the  apartment  as  he 
cursed,  while  the  object  of  his  maledictions  roared 
with  merriment  and  rammed  the  floor  with  his  foot. 

"  Why,  it  will  make  his  old  place  worth  ten  dollars 
to  one,"  said  the  official  to  the  interpreter. 

"  'Tis  not  for  de  worse  of  de  property,"  said  the 
interpreter. 

"  I  should  guess  not,"  said  the  other,  whittling  his 
chair,  —  ' '  seems  to  me  as  if  some  of  these  old  Creoles 
would  liever  live  in  a  crawfish  hole  than  to  have  a 
neighbor. ' ' 

' '  You  know  what  make  old  Jean  Poquelin  make 
like  that?     I  will  tell  you.     You  know  "  — 

The  interpreter  was  rolling  a  cigarette,  and  paused 
to  light  his  tinder ;  then,  as  the  smoke  poured  in  a 
thick  double  stream  from  his  nostrils,  he  said,  in  a 
solemn  whisper : 

"  He  is  a  witch." 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho  !  "    laughed  the  other. 

"You  don't  believe  it?  What  you  want  to  bet?" 
cried  the  interpreter,  jerking  himself  half  up  and 
thrusting  out  one  arm  while  he  bared  it  of  its  coat- 
sleeve  with  the  hand  of  the  other.  "  What  you  want 
to  bet?" 

' '  How  do  you  know  ? ' '    asked  the  official. 

"  Dass  what  I  goin'   to  tell  you.     You  know,  one 


190  OLD   CEEOLE  DAYS. 

evening  I  was  shooting  some  grosbec.  I  killed  three  ; 
but  I  had  trouble  to  fine  them,  it  was  becoming  so 
dark.  When  I  have  them  I  start'  to  come  home ; 
then  I  got  to  pas'  at  Jean  Poquelin's  house." 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho  !  "  laughed  the  other,  throwing  his  leg 
over  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  Wait,"  said  the  interpreter.  "  I  come  along  slow, 
not  making  some  noises  ;  still,  still "  — 

"And  scared,"  said  the  smiling  one. 

"  Mais,  wait.  I  get  all  pas'  the  'ouse.  'Ah!'  I 
say  ;  '  all  right ! '  Then  I  see  two  thing'  before  ! 
Hah !  I  get  as  cold  and  humide,  and  shake  like  a  leaf. 
You  think  it  was  nothing?  There  I  see,  so  plain  as 
can  be  (though  it  was  making  nearly  dark) ,  I  see  Jean 
—  Marie  —  Po-que-lin  walkin'  right  in  front,  and  right 
there  beside  of  him  was  something  like  a  man  —  but 
not  a  man  —  white  like  paint !  —  I  clropp'  on  the  grass 
from  scared — they  pass' ;  so  sure  as  I  live  'twas  the 
ghos'  of  Jacques  Poquelin,  his  brother !  " 

"  Pooh  !  "    said  the  listener. 

"  I'll  put  my  han'  in  the  fire,"  said  the  interpreter. 

"But  did  you  never  think,"  asked  the  other, 
"that  that  might  be  Jack  Poquelin,  as  you  call  him, 
alive  and  well,  and  for  some  cause  hid  away  by  his 
brother?" 

' '  But  there  har'  no  cause  ! ' '  said  the  other,  and  the 
entrance  of  third  parties  changed  the  subject. 

Some  months  passed  and  the  street  was  opened.  A 
canal  was  first  dug  through  the  marsh,  the  small  one 
which  passed  so  close  to  Jean  Poquelin's  house  was 
filled,  and   the   street,  or  rather   a   sunny  road,  just 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN.  191 

touched  a  corner  of  the  old  mansion's  dooryard.  The 
morass  ran  dry.  Its  venomous  denizens  slipped  away 
through  the  bulrushes  ;  the  cattle  roaming  freely  upon 
its  hardened  surface  trampled  the  superabundant  un- 
dergrowth. The  bellowing  frogs  croaked  to  westward. 
Lilies  and  the  flower-de-luce  sprang  up  in  the  place  of 
reeds  ;  smilax  and  poison-oak  gave  way  to  the  purple- 
plumed  iron-weed  and  pink  spiclerwort ;  the  bindweeds 
ran  everywhere  blooming  as  they  ran,  and  on  one  of 
the  dead  cypresses  a  giant  creeper  hung  its  green 
burden  of  foliage  and  lifted  its  scarlet  trumpets. 
Sparrows  and  red-birds  flitted  through  the  bushes,  and 
dewberries  grew  ripe  beneath.  Over  all  these  came  a 
sweet,  dry  smell  of  salubrity  which  the  place  had  not 
known  since  the  sediments  of  the  Mississippi  first 
lifted  it  from  the  sea. 

But  its  owner  did  not  build.  Over  the  willow- 
brakes,  and  down  the  vista  of  the  open  street,  bright 
new  houses,  some  singly,  some  by  ranks,  were  prying 
in  upon  the  old  man's  privacy.  They  even  settled 
down  toward  his  southern  side.  First  a  wood-cutter's 
hut  or  two,  then  a  market  gardener's  shanty,  then 
a  painted  cottage,  and  all  at  once  the  faubourg  had 
flanked  and  half  surrounded  him  and  his  dried-up 
marsh. 

Ah !  then  the  common  people  began  to  hate  him. 
"The  old  tyrant!"  "You  don't  mean  an  old 
tyrant?"  "Well,  then,  why  don't  he  build  when 
the  public  need  demands  it?  What  does  he  live  in 
that  unneighborly  way  for?"  "The  old  pirate!" 
' '  The  old  kidnapper ! ' '     How  easily  even   the   most 


192  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

ultra  Louisianians  put  ou  the  imported  virtues  of  the 
North  when  they  could  be  brought  to  bear  against  the 
hermit.  "There  he  goes,  with  the  boys  after  him! 
Ah !  ha  !  ha !  Jean-ah  Poquelin !  Ah  !  Jean-ah  ! 
Aha  !  aha  !  Jean-ah  Marie  !  Jean-ah  Poquelin  !  The 
old  villain  !  "  How  merrily  the  swarming  Am^ricains 
echo  the  spirit  of  persecution!  "The  old  fraud," 
they  say —  "  pretends  to  live  in  a  haunted  house,  does 
he  ?  We'll  tar  and  feather  him  some  day.  Guess  we 
can  fix  him." 

He  cannot  be  rowed  home  along  the  old  canal  now ; 
he  walks.  He  has  broken  sadly  of  late,  and  the 
street  urchins  are  ever  at  his  heels.  It  is  like  the 
days  when  they  cried  :  "  Go  up,  thou  bald-head,"  and 
the  old  man  now  and  then  turns  and  delivers  ineffectual 
curses. 

To  the  Creoles  —  to  the  incoming  lower  class  of  su- 
perstitious Germans,  Irish,  Sicilians,  and  others  —  he 
became  an  omen  and  embodiment  of  public  and  pri- 
vate ill-fortune.  Upon  him  all  the  vagaries  of  their 
superstitions  gathered  and  grew.  If  a  house  caught 
fire,  it  was  imputed  to  his  machinations.  Did  a  wo- 
man go  off  in  a  fit,  he  had  bewitched  her.  Did  a 
child  stray  off  for  an  hour,  the  mother  shivered  with 
the  apprehension  that  Jean  Poquelin  had  offered  him 
to  strange  gods.  The  house  was  the  subject  of  every 
bad  boy's  invention  who  loved  to  contrive  ghostly  lies. 
"  As  long  as  that  house  stands  we  shall  have  bad  luck. 
Do  you  not  see  our  pease  and  beans  dying,  our  cab- 
bages and  lettuce  going  to  seed  and  our  gardens  turn- 
ing to  dust,  while  every  day  you  can  see  it  raining  in 


JEAN-AU  POQUELIN.  193 

the  woods?  The  rain  will  never  pass  old  Poquelin's 
house.  He  keeps  a  fetich.  He  has  conjured  the 
whole  Faubourg  St.  Marie.  And  why,  the  old  wretch? 
Simply  because  our  playful  and  innocent  children  call 
after  him  as  he  passes." 

A  "Building  and  Improvement  Company,"  which 
had  not  yet  got  its  charter,  "but  was  going  to,"  and 
which  had  not,  indeed,  any  tangible  capital  yet,  but 
"was  going  to  have  some,"  joined  the  "Jean-ahPo- 
quelin  ' '  war.  The  haunted  property  would  be  such  a 
capital  site  for  a  market-house  !  They  sent  a  deputa- 
tion to  the  old  mansion  to  ask  its  occupant  to  sell. 
The  deputation  never  got  beyond  the  chained  gate  and 
a  very  barren  interview  with  the  African  mute.  The 
President  of  the  Board  was  then  empowered  (for  he 
had  studied  French  in  Pennsylvania  and  was  consid- 
ered qualified)  to  call  and  persuade  M.  Poquelin  to 
subscribe  to  the  company's  stock  ;  but  — 

"Fact  is,  gentlemen,"  he  said  at  the  next  meeting, 
"  it  would  take  us  at  least  twelve  months  to  make  Mr. 
Pokaleen  understand  the  rather  original  features  of 
our  system,  and  he  wouldn't  subscribe  when  weM 
clone  ;  besides,  the  only  way  to  see  him  is  to  stop  him 
on  the  street." 

There  was  a  great  laugh  from  the  Board ;  they 
couldn't  help  it.  "  Better  meet  a  bear  robbed  of  her 
whelps,"  said  one. 

"You're  mistaken  as  to  that,"  said  the  President. 
"  I  did  meet  him,  and  stopped  him,  and  found  him 
quite  polite.  But  I  could  get  no  satisfaction  from 
him ;  the  fellow  wouldn't  talk  in  French,  and  when  I 


194  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

spoke  in  English  he  hoisted  his  old  shoulders  up,  and 
gave  the  same  answer  to  every  thing  I  said." 

"And  that  was  —  ?"  asked  one  or  two,  impatient 
of  the  pause. 

"  That  it  '  don't  worse  w'ile?  '  " 

One  of  the  Board  said:  "Mr.  President,  this  mar- 
ket-house project,  as  I  take  it,  is  not  altogether  a 
selfish  one  ;  the  community  is  to  be  benefited  by  it. 
We  may  feel  that  we  are  working  in  the  public  inter- 
est [the  Board  smiled  knowingly],  if  we  emplo}'  all 
possible  means  to  oust  this  old  nuisance  from  among 
us.  You  may  know  that  at  the  time  the  street  was 
cut  through,  this  old  Poquelann  did  all  he  could  to 
prevent  it.  It  was  owing  to  a  certain  connection 
which  I  had  with  that  affair  that  I  heard  a  ghost  story 
[smiles,  followed  by  a  sudden  dignified  check]  — ghost 
story,  which,  of  course,  I  am  not  going  to  relate  ;  but 
I  may  say  that  my  profound  conviction,  arising  from  a 
prolonged  study  of  that  story,  is,  that  this  old  villain, 
John  Poquelann,  has  his  brother  locked  up  in  that  old 
house.  Now,  if  this  is  so,  and  we  can  fix  it  on  him, 
I  merely  suggest  that  we  can  make  the  matter  highly 
useful.  I  don't  know,"  he  added,  beginning  to  sit 
down,  "  but  that  it  is  an  action  we  owe  to  the  commu- 
nity —  hem  ! ' ' 

"How  do  you  propose  to  handle  the  subject?" 
asked  the  President. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  the  speaker,  "that,  as  a 
Board  of  Directors,  it  would  be  unadvisable  for  us  to 
authorize  any  action  involving  trespass  ;  but  if  you, 
for  instance,  Mr.    President,  should,  as  it  were,   for 


JEAN- AH  PO QUE LIN.  195 

mere  curiosity,  request  some  one,  as,  for  instance,  our 
excellent  Secretaiy,  simply  as  a  personal  favor,  to  look 
into  the  matter  —  this  is  merely  a  suggestion." 

The  Secretary  smiled  sufficiently  to  be  understood 
that,  while  he  certainly  did  not  consider  such  prepos- 
terous service  a  part  of  his  duties  as  secretary,  he 
might,  notwithstanding,  accede  to  the  President's  re- 
quest ;  and  the  Board  adjourned. 

Little  White,  as  the  Secretary  was  called,  was  a 
mild,  kind-hearted  little  man,  who,  nevertheless,  had 
no  fear  of  any  thing,  unless  it  was  the  fear  of  being 
unkind. 

"  I  tell  you  frankly,"  he  privately  said  to  the  Presi- 
dent, "  I  go  into  this  purely  for  reasons  of  my  own." 

The  next  day,  a  little  after  nightfall,  one  might 
have  descried  this  little  man  slipping  along  the  rear 
fence  of  the  Poquelin  place,  preparatory  to  vaulting 
over  into  the  rank,  grass-grown  yard,  and  bearing 
himself  altogether  more  after  the  manner  of  a  col- 
lector of  rare  chickens  than  according  to  the  usage  of 
secretaries. 

The  picture  presented  to  his  eye  was  not  calculated 
to  enliven  his  mind.  The  old  mansion  stood  out 
against  the  western  sky,  black  and  silent.  One  long, 
lurid  pencil-stroke  along  a  sky  of  slate  was  all  that 
was  left  of  daylight.  No  sign  of  life  was  apparent ; 
no  light  at  any  window,  unless  it  might  have  been 
on  the  side  of  the  house  hidden  from  view.  No  owls 
were  on  the  chimneys,  no  dogs  were  in  the  yard. 

He  entered  the  place,  and  ventured  up  behind  a  small 
cabin  which  stood  apart  from  the  house.     Through  one 


196  OLD    CREOLE  DAYS. 

of  its  many  crannies  he  easily  detected  the  African 
mute  crouched  before  a  flickering  pine-knot,  his  head 
on  his  knees,  fast  asleep. 

Pie  concluded  to  enter  the  mansion,  and,  with  that 
view,  stood  and  scanned  it.  The  broad  rear  steps  of 
the  veranda  would  not  serve  him  ;  he  might  meet  some 
one  midway.  He  was  measuring,  with  his  eye,  the 
proportions  of  one  of  the  pillars  which  supported  it, 
and  estimating  the  practicability  of  climbing  it,  when 
he  heard  a  footstep.  Some  one  dragged  a  chair  out 
toward  the  railing,  then  seemed  to  change  his  mind 
and  began  to  pace  the  veranda,  his  footfalls  resound- 
ing on  the  dry  boards  with  singular  loudness.  Little 
White  drew  a  step  backward,  got  the  figure  between 
himself  and  the  sky,  and  at  once  recognized  the  short, 
broad-shouldered  form  of  old  Jean  Poquelin. 

He  sat  down  upon  a  billet  of  wood,  and,  to  escape 
the  stings  of  a  whining  cloud  of  mosquitoes,  shrouded 
his  face  and  neck  in  his  handkerchief,  leaving  his  eyes 
uncovered. 

He  had  sat  there  but  a  moment  when  he  noticed 
a  strange,  sickening  odor,  faint,  as  if  coming  from 
a  distance,  but  loathsome  and  horrid. 

Whence  could  it  come  ?  Not  from  the  cabin  ;  not 
from  the  marsh,  for  it  was  as  dry  as  powder.  It  was 
not  in  the  air ;  it  seemed  to  come  from  the  ground. 

Rising  up,  he  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  a  few  steps 
before  him  a  narrow  footpath  leading  toward  the 
house.  He  glanced  down  it  —  ha!  right  there  was 
some  one  coming  —  ghostly  white  ! 

Quick  as  thought,  and  as  noiselessly,  he  lay  down  at 


JEAN- AH  POQUELIN.  197 

full  length  against  the  cabin.  It  was  bold  strategy, 
and  yet,  there  was  no  denying  it,  little  White  felt  that 
he  was  frightened.  "It  is  not  a  ghost,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "I  know  it  cannot  be  a  ghost;"  but  the 
perspiration  burst  out  at  every  pore,  and  the  air  seemed 
to  thicken  with  heat.  "  It  is  a  living  man,"  he  said 
in  his  thoughts.  "  I  hear  his  footstep,  and  I  hear  old 
Poquelin's  footsteps,  too,  separately,  over  on  the  ver- 
anda. I  am  not  discovered ;  the  thing  has  passed  ; 
there  is  that  odor  again  ;  what  a  smell  of  death  !  Is  it 
coming  back?  Yes.  It  stops  at  the  door  of  the 
cabin.  Is  it  peering  in  at  the  sleeping  mute?  It 
moves  away.  It  is  in  the  path  again.  Now  it  is 
gone."  He  shuddered.  "Now,  if  I  dare  venture, 
the  mystery  is  solved."  He  rose  cautiously,  close' 
against  the  cabin,  and  peered  along  the  path. 

The  figure  of  a  man,  a  presence  if  not  a  bodj  —  but 
whether  clad  in  some  white  stuff  or  naked  the  darkness 
would  not  allow  him  to  determine  —  had  turned,  and 
now,  with  a  seeming  painful  gait,  moved  slowly  from 
him.  "Great  Heaven!  can  it  be  that  the  dead  do 
walk?"  He  withdrew  again  the  hands  which  had 
gone  to  his  eyes.  The  dreadful  object  passed  between 
two  pillars  and  under  the  house.  He  listened.  There 
was  a  faint  sound  as  of  feet  upon  a  staircase  ;  then  all 
was  still  except  the  measured  tread  of  Jean  Poquelin 
walking  on  the  veranda,  and  the  heavy  respirations  of 
the  mute  slumbering  in  the  cabin. 

The  little  Secretary  was  about  to  retreat ;  but  as  he 
looked  once  more  toward  the  haunted  house  a  dim 
light  appeared  in  the  crack  of  a  closed  window,  and 


198  0LI>   CREOLE  DAYS. 

presently  old  Jean  Poquelin  came,  dragging  his  chair, 
and  sat  down  close  against  the  shining  cranny.  He 
spoke  in  a  low,  tender  tone  in  the  French  tongue, 
making  some  inquiry.  An  answer  came  from  within. 
Was  it  the  voice  of  a  human?     So  unnatural  was  it 

—  so  hollow,  so  discordant,  so  unearthly  —  that  the 
stealthy  listener  shuddered  again  from  head  to  foot , 
and  when  something  stirred  in  some  bushes  near  by  — 
though   it  may  have   been  nothing  more  than  a  rat 

—  and  came  scuttling  through  the  grass,  the  little 
Secretary  actually  turned  and  fled.  As  he  left  the 
enclosure  he  moved  with  bolder  leisure  through  the 
bushes  ;  yet  now  and  then  he  spoke  aloud  :  "  Oh,  oh  ! 
I  see,  I  understand  !  "  and  shut  his  eyes  in  his  hands. 

How  strange  that  henceforth  little  White  was  the 
champion  of  Jean  Poquelin  !  In  season  and  out  of 
season  —  wherever  a  word  was  uttered  against  him  — 
the  Secretary,  with  a  quiet,  aggressive  force  that  in- 
stantly arrested  gossip,  demanded  upon  what  authority 
the  statement  or  conjecture  was  made ;  but  as  he  did 
not  condescend  to  explain  his  own  remarkable  atti- 
tude, it  was  not  long  before  the  disrelish  and  suspicion 
which  had  followed  Jean  Poquelin  so  many  years  fell 
also  upon  him. 

It  was  only  the  next  evening  but  one  after  his 
adventure  that  he  made  himself  a  source  of  sullen 
amazement  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  boys,  by  ordering 
them  to  desist  from  their  wanton  hallooing.  Old  Jean 
Poquelin,  standing  and  shaking  his  cane,  rolling  out 
his  long-drawn  maledictions,  paused  and  stared,  then 
gave  the  Secretary  a  courteous  bow  and  started  on. 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN.  199 

The  boys,  save  one,  from  pure  astonishment,  ceased ; 
but  a  ruffianly  little  Irish  lad,  more  daring  than  any 
had  3'et  been,  threw  a  big  hurtling  clod,  that  struck 
old  Poquelin  between  the  shoulders  and  burst  like  a 
shell.  The  enraged  old  man  wheeled  with  uplifted 
staff  to  give  chase  to  the  scampering  vagabond ;  and 

—  he  may  have  tripped,  or  he  may  not,  but  he  fell  full 
length.  Little  White  hastened  to  help  him  up,  but  he 
waved  him  off  with  a  fierce  imprecation  and  staggering 
to  his  feet  resumed  his  way  homeward.  His  lips  were 
reddened  with  blood. 

Little  White  was  on  his  way  to  the  meeting  of  the 
Board.  He  would  have  given  all  he  dared  spend  to 
have  staid  away,  for  he  felt  both  too  fierce  and  too 
tremulous  to  brook  the  criticisms  that  were  likely  to  be 
made. 

"I  can't  help  it,  gentlemen;  I  can't  help  you  to 
make  a  case  against  the  old  man,  and  I'm  not  going 
to." 

"We  did  not  expect  this  disappointment,  Mr. 
White." 

"I  can't  help  that,  sir.  No,  sir;  you  had  better 
not  appoint  any  more  investigations.  Somebody'll  in- 
vestigate himself  into  trouble.  No,  sir ;  it  isn't  a 
threat,  it  is  only  my  advice,  but  I  warn  you  that  who- 
ever takes  the  task  in  hand  will  rue  it  to  his  dying  day 

—  which  may  be  hastened,  too." 

The  President  expressed  himself  "  surprised." 
"I   don't    care    a    rush,"    answered    little   White, 
wildly  and  foolishly.     "  I  don't  care  a  rush  if  you  are, 
sir.     No,  my  nerves  are  not  disordered  ;  my  head's  as 
clear  as  a  bell.     No,  I'm  not  excited." 


200  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

A  Director  remarked  that  the  Secretary  looked  aa 
though  he  had  waked  from  a  nightmare. 

"Well,  sir,  if  you  want  to  know  the  fact,  I  have; 
and  if  you  choose  to  cultivate  old  Poquelin's  society 
you  can  have  one,  too." 

"White,"  called  a  facetious  member,  but  White  did 
not  notice.     "  White,"  he  called  again. 

"  What?  "  demanded  White,  with  a  scowl. 

"  Did  }7ou  see  the  ghost?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  I  did,"  cried  White,  hitting  the  table, 
and  handing  the  President  a  paper  which  brought  the 
Board  to  other  business. 

The  story  got  among  the  gossips  that  somebody 
(they  were  afraid  to  say  little  White)  had  been  to  the 
Poquelin  mansion  by  night  and  beheld  something  ap- 
palling. The  rumor  was  but  a  shadow  of  the  truth, 
magnified  and  distorted  as  is  the  manner  of  shadows. 
He  had  seen  skeletons  walking,  and  had  barely  escaped 
the  clutches  of  one  by  making  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

Some  madcap  boys  with  an  appetite  for  the  horrible 
plucked  up  courage  to  venture  through  the  dried  marsh 
by  the  cattle-path,  and  come  before  the  house  at  a 
spectral  hour  when  the  air  was  full  of  bats.  Some- 
thing which  they  but  half  saw  —  half  a  sight  was 
enough  —  sent  them  tearing  back  through  the  w  llow- 
brakes  and  acacia  bushes  to  their  homes,  where  they 
fairly  dropped  down,  and  cried  : 

"  Was  it  white  ?  "  "  No  —  yes  —  nearby  so  —  we 
can't  tell  —  but  we  saw  it."  And  one  could  hardly 
doubt,  to  look  at  their  ashen  faces,  that  they  had, 
whatever  it  was. 


JEAN- AH  POQUELIN.  201 

"If  that  old  rascal  lived  in  the  country  we  come 
from,"  said  certain  Americains,  "he'd  have  been 
tarred  and  feathered  before  now,  wouldn't  he,  San- 
ders? " 

"  Well,  now  he  just  would." 

"  And  we'd  have  rid  him  on  a  rail,  wouldn't  we?  " 

"That's  what  I  allow." 

"  Tell  you  what  you  could  do."  They  were  talking 
to  some  rollicking  Creoles  who  had  assumed  an  abso- 
lute necessity  for  doing  something.  "What  is  it  you 
call  this  thing  where  an  old  man  marries  a  young  girl, 
and  you  come  out  with  horns  and  ' '  — 

"  Cliarivari?"  asked  the  Creoles. 

"Yes,  that's  it.  Why  don't  you  shivaree  him?" 
Felicitous  suggestion. 

Little  White,  with  his  wife  beside  him,  was  sitting 
on  their  doorsteps  on  the  sidewalk,  as  Creole  custom 
had  taught  them,  looking  toward  the  sunset.  They 
had  moved  into  the  lately-opened  street.  The  view 
was  not  attractive  on  the  score  of  beauty.  The  houses 
were  small  and  scattered,  and  across  the  flat  commons, 
spite  of  the  lofty  tangle  of  weeds  and  bushes,  and 
spite  of  the  thickets  of  acacia,  they  needs  must  see  the 
dismal  old  Poquelin  mansion,  tilted  awry  and  shutting 
out  the  declining  sun.  The  moon,  white  and  slender, 
was  hanging  the  tip  of  its  horn  over  one  of  the  chim- 
neys. 

"  And  you  say,"  said  the  Secretary,  "  the  old  black 
man  has  been  going  by  here  alone?  Patty,  suppose 
old  Poquelin  should  be  concocting  some  mischief ;  he 
don't  lack  provocation  ;  the  way  that  clod  hit  him  the 


202  OLD  CREOLE  DAYS. 

other  day  was  enough  to  have  killed  him.  "Why, 
Patty,  he  dropped  as  quick  as  that !  No  wonder  you 
haven't  seen  him.  I  wonder  if  they  haven't  heard 
something  about  him  up  at  the  drug-store.  Suppose 
I  go  and  see." 

"  Do,"  said  his  wife. 

She  sat  alone  for  half  an  hour,  watching  that  sud- 
den going  out  of  the  day  peculiar  to  the  latitude. 

"That  moon  is  ghost  enough  for  one  house,"  she 
said,  as  her  husband  returned.  "It  has  gone  right 
down  the  chimney." 

"Patty,"  said  little  White,  "the  drug-clerk  says 
the  boys  are  going  to  shivaree  old  Poquelin  to-night. 
I'm  going  to  try  to  stop  it." 

"Why,  White,"  said  his  wife,  "you'd  better  not. 
You'll  get  hurt." 

"No,  I'll  not." 

"  Yes,  you  will." 

"I'm  going  to  sit  out  here  until  they  come  along. 
They're  compelled  to  pass  right  by  here." 

"  Why,  White,  it  may  be  midnight  before  they  start ; 
you're  not  going  to  sit  out  here  till  then." 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"Well,  you're  very  foolish,"  said  Mrs.  White  in  an 
undertone,  looking  anxious,  and  tapping  one  of  the 
steps  with  her  foot. 

They  sat  a  very  long  time  talking  over  little  family 
matters. 

"  What's  that?  "  at  last  said  Mrs.  White. 

"  That's  the  nine-o'clock  gun,"  said  White,  and 
they  relapsed  into  a  long-sustained,  drowsy  silence. 


JEAN-AH  POQUELW.  203 

"  Patty,  you'd  better  go  in  and  go  to  bed,"  said  he 
at  last. 

"  I'm  not  sleepy." 

"  Well,  you're  very  foolish,"  quietly  remarked  little 
White,  and  again  silence  fell  upon  them. 

"Patty,  suppose  I  walk  out  to  the  old  house  and 
see  if  I  can  find  out  any  thing." 

"Suppose,"  said  she,  "you  don't  do  any  such — ■ 
listen  !  " 

Down  the  street  arose  a  great  hubbub.  Dogs  ana! 
bo}'s  were  howling  and  barking ;  men  were  laughing, 
shouting,  groaning,  and  blowing  horns,  whooping,  and 
clanking  cow-bells,  whinnying,  and  howling,  and  rat- 
tling pots  and  pans. 

"They  are  coming  this  way,"  said  little  White. 
"You  had  better  go  into  the  house,  Patty." 

"  So  had  you." 

"No.     I'm  going  to  see  if  I  can't  stop  them." 

"Why,  White!" 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  said  White,  and  went 
toward  the  noise. 

In  a  few  moments  the  little  Secretary  met  the  mob. 
The  pen  hesitates  on  the  word,  for  there  is  a  respecta- 
ble difference,  measurable  only  on  the  scale  of  the  half 
century,  between  a  mob  and  a  charivari.  Little  White 
lifted  his  ineffectual  voice.  He  faced  the  head  of  the 
disorderly  column,  and  cast  himself  about  as  if  he 
were  made  of  wood  and  moved  by  the  jerk  of  a  string. 
He  rushed  to  one  who  seemed,  from  the  size  and  clat- 
ter of  his  tin  pan,  to  be  a  leader.  "  Stop  these  fel- 
lows, Bienvenu,  stop  them  just  a  minute,  till  I  tell  them 


204  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

something."  Bienvemi  turned  and  brandished  his  in- 
struments of  discord  in  an  imploring  way  to  the  crowd. 
They  slackened  their  pace,  two  or  three  hushed  their 
horns  and  joined  the  prayer  of  little  White  aud  Bien- 
venu for  silence.  The  throng  halted.  The  hush  was 
delicious. 

"Bienvenu,"  said  little  White,  "  don't  shivaree  old 
Poquelin  to-night ;  he's  "  — 

"My  fwaug,"  said  the  swayiug  Bienvenu,  "who 
tail  you  I  goin'  to  chahivahi  somebody,  eh?  You  sink 
bickause  I  make  a  little  playfool  wiz  zis  tin  pan  zat  I 
am  dhonh  f  ' ' 

"Oh,  no,  Bienvenu,  old  fellow,  you're  all  right.  I 
was  afraid  you  might  not  know  that  old  Poquelin  was 
sick,  you  know,  but  you're  not  going  there,  are  you?  " 

"  My  fwang,  I  vay  soy  to  tail  you  zat  you  ah  dhonk 
as  cle  dev'.  I  am  shem  of  you.  I  ham  ze  servan'  of 
ze  publique.  Zese  citoyens  goin'  to  wickwest  Jean 
Poquelin  to  give  to  the  Ursuline'  two  hondred  fifty 
dolla'"  — 

"  Hi  quoi!"  cried  a  listener,  "  Cinq  cent  piastres, 
ouil" 

uOui!  "  said  Bienvenu,  "  and  if  he  wiffuse  we  make 
him  some  lit'  musique;  ta-ra-ta !  "  He  hoisted  a 
merry  hand- and  foot,  then  frowning,  added:  "Old 
Poquelin  got  no  bizniz  dhink  s'much  w'isky." 

"But,  gentlemen,"  said  little  White,  around  whom 
a  circle  had  gathered,  "  the  old  man  is  very  sick." 

"  My  faith !  "  cried  a  tiny  Creole,  "  we  did  not  make 
him  to  be  sick.  W'en  we  have  say  we  going  make  le 
charivari,  do  you  want  that  we  hall  tell  a  lie?  My 
faith!  'sfools!" 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN,  205 

"But  you  can  shivaree  somebody  else,"  said  des- 
perate little  White. 

uOui!"  cried  Bienvenu,  "  et  chahivahi  Jean-ah 
Poquelin  tomo'w !  " 

"  Let  us  go  to  Madame  Schneider!"  cried  two  or 
three,  and  amid  huzzas  and  confused  cries,  among 
which  was  heard  a  stentorian  Celtic  call  for  drinks,  the 
crowd  again  began  to  move. 

"  Cent  piastres  pour  VMpital  de  cJiarite!" 

"  Hurrah !  " 

"  One  hongred  dolla'  for  Charity  Hospital !  " 

"Hurrah!" 

"Whang!"  went  a  tin  pan,  the  crowd  yelled,  and 
Pandemonium  gaped  again.  They  were  off  at  a  right 
angle. 

Nodding,  Mrs.  White  looked  at  the  mantle-clock. 

"Well,  if  it  isn't  away  after  midnight." 

The  hideous  noise  down  street  was  passing  beyond 
earshot.  She  raised  a  sash  and  listened.  For  a  mo- 
ment there  was  silence.     Some  one  came  to  the  door. 

"Is  that  you,  White?" 

"Yes."     He  entered.     "  I  succeeded,  Patty." 

"  Did  you?  "  said  Patty,  joyfully. 

"Yes.  They've  gone  down  to  shivaree  the  old 
Dutchwoman  who  married  her  step-daughter's  sweet- 
heart. They  say  she  has  got  to  pay  a  hundred  dollars 
to  the  hospital  before  they  stop." 

The  couple  retired,  and  Mrs.  White  slumbered. 
She  was  awakened  by  her  husband  snapping  the  lid  of 
his  watch. 

"  What  time?  "  she  asked. 


206  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"Half-past  three.  Patty,  I  haven't  slept  a  wink. 
Those  fellows  are  out  yet.     Don't  you  hear  them?  " 

"Why,  White,  they're  coming  this  way  !  " 

"I  know  they  are,"  said  White,  sliding  out  of  bed 
and  drawing  on  his  clothes,  "  and  they're  coming  fast. 
You'd  better  go  away  from  that  window,  Patty.  My  ! 
what  a  clatter  !  " 

"Here  they  are,"  said  Mrs.  White,  but  her  hus- 
band was  gone.  Two  or  three  hundred  men  and  boys 
pass  the  place  at  a  rapid  walk  straight  down  the  broad, 
new  street,  toward  the  hated  house  of  ghosts.  The 
din  was  terrific.  She  saw  little  White  at  the  head  of 
the  rabble  brandishing  his  arms  and  trying  in  vain  to 
make  himself  heard  ;  but  they  only  shook  their  heads, 
laughing  and  hooting  the  louder,  and  so  passed,  bear- 
ing him  on  before  them. 

Swiftly  they  pass  out  from  among  the  houses,  away 
from  the  dim  oil  lamps  of  the  street,  out  into  the 
broad  starlit  commons,  and  enter  the  willowy  jungles 
of  the  haunted  ground.  Some  hearts  fail  and  their 
owners  lag  behind  and  turn  back,  suddenly  remember- 
ing how  near  morning  it  is.  But  the  most  part  push 
on,  tearing  the  air  with  their  clamor. 

Down  ahead  of  them  in  the  long,  thicket-darkened 
way  there  is  —  singularly  enough  —  a  faint,  dancing 
light.  It  must  be  very  near  the  old  house ;  it  is.  It 
has  stopped  now.  It  is  a  lantern,  and  is  under  a  well- 
known  sapling  which  has  grown  up  on  the  wayside 
since  the  canal  was  filled.  Now  it  swings  m}Tsteriously 
to  and  fro.  A  goodly  number  of  the  more  ghost- 
fearing  give  up  the  sport;  but  a  full  hundred  move 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN.  207 

forward  at  a  run,  doubling  their  devilish  howling  and 
banging. 

Yes ;  it  is  a  lantern,  and  there  are  two  persons 
under  the  tree.  The  crowd  draws  near  —  drops  into 
a  walk ;  one  of  the  two  is  the  old  African  mute ;  he 
lifts  the  lantern  up  so  that  it  shines  on  the  other ;  the 
crowd  recoils  ;  there  is  a  hush  of  all  clangor,  and  all 
at  once,  with  a  cry  of  mingled  fright  and  horror  from 
every  throat,  the  whole  throng  rushes  back,  dropping 
every  thing,  sweeping  past  little  White  and  hurrying 
on,  never  stopping  until  the  jungle  is  left  behind,  and 
then  to  find  that  not  one  in  ten  has  seen  the  cause  of 
the  stampede,  and  not  one  of  the  tenth  is  certain  what 
it  was. 

There  is  one  huge  fellow  among  them  who  looks 
capable  of  any  villany.  He  finds  something  to  mount 
on,  and,  in  the  Creole  patois,  calls  a  general  halt. 
Bienvenu  sinks  down,  and,  vainly  trying  to  recline 
gracefully,  resigns  the  leadership.  The  herd  gather 
round  the  speaker ;  he  assures  them  that  they  have 
been  outraged.  Their  right  peaceably  to  traverse  the 
public  streets  has  been  trampled  upon.  Shall  such 
encroachments  be  endured?  It  is  now  daybreak.  Let 
them  go  now  by  the  open  light  of  day  and  force  a  free 
passage  of  the  public  highway  ! 

A  scattering  consent  was  the  response,  and  the 
crowd,  thinned  now  and  drowsy,  straggled  quietly 
down  toward  the  old  house.  Some  drifted  ahead, 
others  sauntered  behind,  but  every  one,  as  he  again 
neared  the  tree,  came  to  a  stand-still.  Little  White 
sat  upon  a  bank  of  turf  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 


208  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

way  looking  very  stern  and  sad.     To  each  new-comer 
*      he  put  the  same  question  : 

"  Did  you  come  here  to  go  to  old  Poquelin's?  " 

"Yes." 

"He's  dead."  And  if  the  shocked  hearer  started 
away  he  would  say  :  "  Don't  go  away." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  funeral  presently." 

If  some  Louisianian,  too  loyal  to  dear  France  or 
Spain  to  understand  English,  looked  bewildered,  some 
one  would  interpret  for  him  ;  and  presently  they  went. 
Little  White  led  the  van,  the  crowd  trooping  after  him 
down  the  middle  of  the  way.  The  gate,  that  had 
never  been  seen  before  unchained,  was  open.  Stern 
little  White  stopped  a  short  distance  from  it ;  the 
rabble  stopped  behind  him.  Something  was  moving 
out  from  under  the  veranda.  The  many  whisperers 
stretched  upward  to  see.  The  African  mute  came  very 
slowly  toward  the  gate,  leading  by  a  cord  in  the  nose 
a  small  brown  bull,  which  was  harnessed  to  a  rude 
cart.  On  the  flat  body  of  the  cart,  under  a  black 
cloth,  were  seen  the  outlines  of  a  long  box. 

"  Hats  off,  gentlemen,"  said  little  White,  as  the  box 
came  in  view,  and  the  crowd  silently  uncovered. 
f  "Gentlemen,"    said   little  White,   "here  come  the 

last  remains  of  Jean  Marie  Poquelin,  a  better  man, 
I'm  afraid,  with  all  his  sins,  —  yes  a  better  —  a  kinder 
man  to  his  blood  —  a  man  of  more  self-forgetful  good- 
ness —  than  all  of  3'ou  put  together  will  ever  dare  to 
be." 

There  was   a  profound  hush   as   the  vehicle  came 


JEAN-AH  POQTJELIN.  209 

creaking  through  the  gate  ;  but  when  it  turned  away 
from  them  toward  the  forest,  those  in  front  started 
suddenly.  There  was  a  backward  rush,  then  all  stood 
still  again  staring  one  way  ;  for  there,  behind  the  bier, 
with  eyes  cast  down  and  labored  step,  walked  the 
living  remains  —  all  that  was  left  —  of  little  Jacques 
Poquelin,  the  long-hidden  brother  —  a  leper,  as  white 
as  snow. 

Dumb  with  horror,  the  cringing  crowd  gazed  upon 
the  walking  death.  They  watched,  in  silent  awe,  the 
slow  cortege  creep  down  the  long,  straight  road  and 
lessen  on  the  view,  until  by  and  by  it  stopped  where  a 
wild,  unfrequented  path  branched  off  into  the  under- 
growth toward  the  rear  of  the  ancient  city. 

"  They  are  going  to  the  Terre  aux  Lepreux"  said 
one  in  the  crowd.     The  rest  watched  them  in  silence. 

The  little  bull  was  set  free ;  the  mute,  with  the 
strength  of  an  ape,  lifted  the  long  box  to  his  shoulder. 
For  a  moment  more  the  mute  and  the  leper  stood  in 
sight,  while  the  former  adjusted  his  heavy  burden ; 
then,  without  one  backward  glance  upon  the  unkind 
human  world,  turning  their  faces  toward  the  ridge  in 
the  depths  of  the  swamp  known  as  the  Leper's  Land, 
they  stepped  into  the  jungle,  disappeared,  and  were 
never  seen  again. 


Tite   Poulette. 


TITE    POULETTE. 


Kristian  Koppig  was  a  rosy-faced,  beardless  young 
Dutchman.  He  was  one  of  that  army  of  gentlemen 
who,  after  the  purchase  of  Louisiana,  swarmed  from 
all  parts  of  the  commercial  world,  over  the  mountains 
of  Franco-Spanish  exclusiveness,  like  the  Goths  over 
the  Pyrenees,  and  settled  down  in  New  Orleans  to  pick 
up  their  fortunes,  with  the  diligence  of  hungry  pigeons. 
He  may  have  been  a  German  ;  the  distinction  was  too 
fine  for  Creole  haste  and  disrelish. 

He  made  his  home  in  a  room  with  one  dormer  win- 
dow looking  out,  and  somewhat  down,  upon  a  building 
opposite,  which  still  stands,  flush  with  the  street,  a 
century  old.  Its  big,  round-arched  windows  in  a  long, 
second-story  row,  are  walled  up,  and  two  or  three  from 
time  to  time  have  had  smaller  windows  let  into  them 
again,  with  odd  little  latticed  peep-holes  in  their  batten 
shutters.  This  had  already  been  done  when  Kristian 
Koppig  first  began  to  look  at  them  from  his  solitary 
dormer  window. 

All  the  features  of  the  building  lead  me  to  guess 
that  it  is  a  remnant  of  the  old  Spanish  Barracks, 
whose  extensive  structure  fell  by  government  sale  into 

213 


214  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

private  hands  a  long  time  ago.  At  the  end  toward  the 
swamp  a  great,  oriental-looking  passage  is  left,  with 
an  arched  entrance,  and  a  pair  of  ponderous  wooden 
doors.  You  look  at  it,  and  almost  see  Count  O'Reilly's 
artillery  come  bumping  and  trundling  out,  and  dash 
around  into  the  ancient  Plaza  to  bang  away  at  King 
St.  Charles's  birthday. 

I  do  not  know  who  lives  there  now.  You  might 
stand  about  on  the  opposite  banquette  for  weeks  and 
never  find  out.  I  suppose  it-is  a  residence,  for  it „does 
not  look  like  one.     That  is  the  rule  in  that  region. 

In  the  good  old  times  of  duels,  and  bagatelle-clubs, 
and  theatre-balls,  and  Cayetano's  circus,  Kristian 
Koppig  rooming  as  described,  there  lived  in  the  por- 
tion of  this  house,  partly  overhanging  the  archway,  a 
palish  handsome  woman,  by  the  name  —  or  going  by 
the  name  —  of  Madame  John.  You  would  hardly 
have  thought  of  her  being  "  colored."  ^Though  fad- 
ing, she  was  still  of  very  attractive  countenance,  fine, 
rather  severe  features,  nearly  straight  hair  carefully 
kept,  and  that  vivid  black  eye  so  peculiar  to  her  kind. 
Her  smile,  which  came  and  went  with  her  talk,  was 
sweet  and  exceedingly  intelligent ;  and  something 
told  you,  as  you  looked  at  her,  that  she  was  one  who 
had  had  to  learn  a  great  deal  in  this  troublesome  life. 

"But!" — the  Creole  lads  in  the  street  would  say 
—  "  —  her  daughter  !  "  and  there  would  be  lifting  of 
arms,  wringing  of  fingers,  rolling  of  eyes,  rounding 
of  mouths,  gaspings  and  clasping  of  hands.  "  So  beau- 
tiful, beautiful,  beautiful !  White?  —  white  like  a  water 
lily  !     White  —  like  a  magnolia  ! ' ' 


"TITE  POULETTE.  215 

Applause  would  follow,  and  invocation  of  all  the 
saints  to  witness. 

And  she  could  sing. 

"  Sing? "  (disdainfully)  —  "if  a  mocking-bird  can 
sing!    Ha!  " 

They  could  not  tell  just  how  old  she  was ;  they 
"  would  give  her  about  seventeen." 

Mother  and  daughter  were  very  fond.  The  neigh- 
bors could  hear  them  call  each  other  pet  names,  and 
see  them  sitting  together,  sewing,  talking  happily  to 
each  other  in  the  unceasing  French  way,  and  see  them 
go  out  and  come  in  together  on  their  little  tasks  and 
errands.  "  'TiteJ^oulette,''  the  daughter  was  called; 
she  never  went  out  alone. 

And  who  was  this  Madame  John  ? 

"Why,  you  know!  —  she  was" — said  the  wig- 
maker  at  the  corner  to  Kristian  Koppig  —  "I'll  tell 
you.  You  know?  —  she  was" — and  the  rest  atom- 
ized off  in  a  rasping  whisper.  She  was  the  best 
yellow-fever  nurse  in  a  thousand  yards  round ;  but 
that  is  not  what  the  wig-maker  said. 

A  block  nearer  the  river  stands  a  house  altogether 
different  from  the  remnant  of  old  barracks.  It  is  of 
frame,  with  a  deep  front  gallery  over  which  the  roof 
extends.  It  has  become  a  den  of  Italians,  who  sell 
fuel  by  daylight,  and  by  night  are  up  to  no  telling 
what  extent  of  deviltry.  This  was  once  the  home  of 
a  gay  gentleman,  whose  first  name  happened  to  be 
John.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Good  Children  Social 
Club.  As  his  parents  lived  with  him,  his  wife  would, 
according  to  custom,  have  been  called  Madame  John  ; 


216  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

but  he  had  no  wife.  His  father  died,  then  his  mother ; 
last  of  all,  himself.  As  he  is  about  to  be  off,  in 
comes  Madame  John,  with  'Tite  Poulette,  then  an 
infant,  on  her  arm. 

"  Zalli,"  said  he,  "  I  am  going." 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  wept. 

"  You  have  been  very  faithful  to  me,  Zalli." 

She  wept  on. 

"  Nobody  to  take  care  of  you  now,  Zalli." 

Zalli  only  went  on  weeping. 

"  I  want  to  give  you  this  house,  Zalli ;  it  is  for  you 
and  the  little  one." 

An  hour  after,  amid  the  sobs  of  Madame  John,  she 
and  the  "little  one"  inherited  the  house,  such  as  it 
was.  With  the  fatal  caution  which  characterizes  igno- 
rance, she  sold  the  property  and  placed  the  proceeds 
in  a  bank,  which  made  haste  to  fail.  She  put  on 
widow's  weeds,  and  wore  them  still  when  'Tite  Pou- 
lette "had  seventeen,"  as  the  frantic  lads  would  say. 

How  they  did  chatter  over  her.  Quiet  Kristian 
Koppig  had  never  seen  the  like.  He  wrote  to  his 
mother,  and  told  her  so.  A  pretty  fellow  at  the  cor- 
ner would  suddenly  double  himself  up  with  beckoning 
to  a  knot  of  chums  ;  these  would  hasten  up  ;  recruits 
would  come  in  from  two  or  three  other  directions  ;  as 
they  reached  the  corner  their  countenances  would 
quickly  assume  a  genteel  severity,  and  presently,  with 
her  mother,  'Tite  Poulette  would  pass  —  tall,  straight, 
lithe,  her  great  black  eyes  made  tender  by  their  sweep- 
ing lashes,  the  faintest  tint  of  color  in  her  Southern 
cheek,  her  form  all  grace,  her  carriage  a  wonder  of 
simple  dignity. 


'TITE  POULETTE.  217 

The  instant  she  was  gone  every  tongue  was  let  slip 
on  the  marvel  of  her  beauty  ;  but,  though  theirs  were 
eul#.  the  loose  New  Orleans  morals  of  over  fifty  years 
gggfr  their  unleashed  tongues  never  had  attempted  any 
greater  liberty  than  to  take  up  the  pet  name,  'Tite 
Poulette.  And  yet  the  mother  was  soon  to  be,  as  we 
shall  discover,  a  paid  dancer  at  the  Salle  de  Conde. 

To  Zalli,  of  course,  as  to  all  "  quadroon  ladies," 
the  festivities  of  the  Conde-street  ball-room  were  fa- 
miliar of  old.  There,  in  the  happy  days  when  clear 
Monsieur  John  was  young,  and  the  eighteenth  century 
old,  she  had  often  repaired  under  guard  of  her  mother 
—  dead  now,  alas!  —  and  Monsieur  John  would  slip 
away  from  the  dull  play  and  dry  society  of  Theatre 
d'Orldans,  and  come  around  with  his  crowd  of  elegant 
friends  ;  and  through  the  long  sweet  hours  of  the  ball 
she  had  danced,  and  laughed,  and  coquetted  under  her 
satin  mask,  even  to  the  baffling  and  tormenting  of  that 
prince  of  gentlemen,  dear  Monsieur  John  himself. 
No  man  of  questionable  blood  dare  set  his  foot  within 
the   door.     Many   noble   gentlemen   were    pleased   to 

dance   with   her.     Colonel   De and   General   La 

:  city  councilmen  and  officers  from  the  Govern- 
ment House.  There  were  no  paid  dancers  then. 
Every  thing  was  decorously  conducted  indeed  !  Every 
girl's  mother  was  there,  and  the  more  discreet  always 
left  before  there  was  too  much  drinking.  Yes,  it  was 
gay,  gay! — but  sometimes  dangerous.  Ha!  more 
times  than  a  few  had  Monsieur  John  knocked  down 
some  long-haired  and  loug-knifed  rowdy,  and  kicked 
the  breath  out  of  him  for  looking  saucily  at  her ;  but 


218  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

that  was  like  him,  he  was  so  brave  and  kind  ;  —  and 
he  is  gone ! 

There  was  no  room  for  widow's  weeds  there.  So 
when  she  put  these  on,  her  glittering  eyes  never  again 
looked  through  her  pink  and  white  mask,  and  she  was 
glad  of  it ;  for  never,  never  in  her  life  had  they  so 
looked  for  anybody  but  her  dear  Monsieur  John,  and 
now  he  was  in  heaven  —  so  the  priest  said  —  and  she 
was  a  sick-nurse. 

Living  was  hard  work ;  and,  as  Madame  John  had 
been  brought  up  tenderly,  and  had  done  what  she 
could  to  rear  her  daughter  in  the  same  mistaken  way, 
with,  of  course,  no  more  education  than  the  ladies  in 
society  got,  they  knew  nothing  beyond  a  little  music 
and  embroidery.  They  struggled  as  they  could, 
faintly ;  now  giving  a  few  private  dancing  lessons, 
now  dressing  hair,  but  ever  beat  back  by  the  steady 
detestation  of  their  imperious  patronesses ;  and,  by 
and  by,  for  want  of  that  priceless  worldly  grace  known 
among  the  flippant  as  "  monej^-sense,"  these  two  poor 
children,  born  of  misfortune  and  the  complacent  bad- 
ness of  the  times,  began  to  be  in  want. 

Kristian  Koppig  noticed  from  his  dormer  window 
one  day  a  man  standing  at  the  big  archway  opposite, 
and  clanking  the  brass  knocker  on  the  wicket  that  was 
in  one  of  the  doors.  He  was  a  smooth  man,  with  his 
hair  parted  in  the  middle,  and  his  cigarette  poised  on 
a  tiny  gold  holder.  He  waited  a  moment,  politely 
cursed  the  dust,  knocked  again,  threw  his  slender 
sword-cane  under  his  arm,  and  wiped  the  inside  of  his 
hat  with  his  handkerchief. 


'TITE  POULETTE.  219 

Madame  John  held  a  parley  with  him  at  the  wicket. 
'Tite  Poulette  was  nowhere  seen.  He  stood  at  the 
gate  while  Madame  John  went  up-stairs.  Kristian 
Koppig  knew  him.  He  knew  him  as  one  knows  a 
snake.  He  was  the  manager  of  the  Salle  cle  Conde. 
Presently  Madame  John  returned  with  a  little  bundle, 
and  they  hurried  off  together. 

And  now  what  did  this  mean?  Why,  by  any  one  of 
ordinary  acuteness  the  matter  was  easily  understood, 
but,  to  tell  the  truth,  Kristian  Koppig  was  a  trifle  dull, 
and  got  the  idea  at  once  that  some  damage  was  being 
planned  against  'Tite  Poulette.  It  made  the  gentle 
Dutchman  miserable  not  to  be  minding  his  own  busi- 
ness, and  yet  — 

"But  the  woman  certainly  will  not  attempt"  — 
said  he  to  himself  —  "no,  no!  she  cannot."  Not 
being  able  to  guess  what  he  meant,  I  cannot  say 
whether  she  could  or  not.  I  know  that  next  day 
Kristian  Koppig,  glancing  eagerly  over  the  "Ami  des 
Lois,"  read  an  advertisement  which  he  had  always 
before  skipped  with  a  frown.  It  was  headed,  "  Salle 
de  Conde,"  and,  being  interpreted,  signified  that  anew 
dance  was  to  be  introduced,  the  Danse  de  Chinois, 
and  that  a  young  lady  would  follow  it  with  the  famous 
"  Danse  du  Shawl." 

It  was  the  Sabbath.  The  young  man  watched  the 
opposite  window  steadily  and  painfully  from  early  in 
the  afternoon  until  the  moon  shone  bright ;  and  from 
the  time  the  moon  shone  bright  until  Madame  John  !  — 
joy  !  — Madame  John  !  and  not  'Tite  Poulette,  stepped 
through  the  wicket,  much  dressed  and  well  muffled, 


220  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

and  hurried  off  toward  the  Hue  Conde.  Madame  John 
was  the  "  young  lady  ;  "  and  the  young  man's  mind, 
glad  to  return  to  its  own  unimpassioned  affairs,  re- 
lapsed into  quietude. 

Madame  John  danced  beautifully.  It  had  to  be 
done.  It  brought  some  pay,  and  pay  was  bread  ;  and 
every  Sunday  evening,  with  a  touch  here  and  there  of 
paint  and  powder,  the  mother  danced  the  dance  of  the 
shawl,  the  daughter  remaining  at  home  alone. 

Kristian  Koppig,  simple,  slow-thinking  young  Dutch- 
man, never  noticing  that  he  staid  at  home  with  his 
window  darkened  for  the  very  purpose,  would  see  her 
come  to  her  window  and  look  out  with  a  little  wild, 
alarmed  look  in  her  magnificent  eyes,  and  go  and  come 
again,  and  again,  until  the  mother,  like  a  storm-driven 
bird,  came  panting  home. 

Two  or  three  months  went  by. 

One  night,  on  the  mother's  return,  Kristian  Koppig 
coming  to  his  room  nearly  at  the  same  moment,  there 
was  much  earnest  conversation,  which  he  could  see, 
but  not  hear. 

"  'Tite  Poulette,"  said  Madame  John,  u  jon  are 
seventeen." 

"True,  Maman." 

"  Ah  !  my  child,  I  see  not  how  you  are  to  meet  the 
future."     The  voice  trembled  plaintively. 

"But  how,  Maman?" 

"Ah!  you  are  not  like  others;  no  fortune,  no 
pleasure,  no  friend." 

"Maman!  " 

"  No,  no  ;  —  I  thank  God  for  it ;  I  am  glad  you  are 


'TITE  POULETTE.  221 

not ;  but  you  will  be  lonely,  lonely,  all  your  poor  life 
long.  There  is  no,  place  in  this  world  for  us  poor 
women.  I  wish  that  we  were  either  white  or  black  !  " 
—  and  the  tears,  two  "shining  ones,"  stood  in  the 
poor  quadroon's  eyes. 

The  daughter  stood  up,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"God  made  us,  Maman,"  she  said  with  a  gentle, 
but  stately  smile. 

"Ha!"  said  the  mother,  her  keen  glance  darting 
through  her  tears,  "  Sin  made  me,  yes." 

"No,"  said  'Tite  Poulette,  "God  made  us.  He 
made  us  just  as  we  are ;  not  more  white,  not  more 
black" 

"  He  made  you,  truly!  "  said  Zalli.  "You  are  so 
beautiful;  I  believe  it  well."  She  reached  and  drew 
the  fair  form  +o  a  kneeling  posture.  "My  sweet, 
white  daughter!  " 

Now  the  tears  were  in  the  girl's  eyes.  "  And  could 
I  be  whiter  than  I  am?  "    she  asked. 

"Oh,  no,  no!  'Tite  Poulette,"  cried  the  other; 
"but  if  we  were  only  real  white!  —  both  of  us;  so 
that  some  gentleman  might  come  to  see  me  and  say 
'  Madame  John,  I  want  your  pretty  little  chick.  She 
is  so  beautiful.  I  want  to  take  her  home.  She  is  so 
good  —  I  want  her  to  be  my  wife.'  Oh,  my  child,  my 
child,  to  see  that  I  would  give  my  life  —  I  would  give 
my  soul !  Only  you  should  take  me  along  to  be  your 
servant.  I  walked  behind  two  young  men  to-night ; 
they  were  coming  home  from  their  office ;  presently 
they  began  to  talk  about  you." 

'Tite  Poulette's  eyes  flashed  fire. 


222  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"No,  my  child,  they  spoke  only  the  best  things. 
One  laughed  a  little  at  times  and  kept  saying  ''Be- 
ware !  '  but  the  other  —  I  prayed  the  Virgin  to  bless 
him,  he  spoke  such  kind  and  noble  words.  Such 
gentle  pity  ;  such  a  holy  heart !  '  May  God  defend 
her,'  he  said,  cherie;  he  said,  '  May  God  defend  her, 
for  I  see  no  help  for  her.'  The  other  one  laughed 
and  left  him.  He  stopped  in  the  door  right  across  the 
street.  Ah,  my  child,  do  you  blush?  Is  that  some- 
thing to  bring  the  rose  to  your  cheek?  Many  fine 
gentlemen  at  the  ball  ask  me  often,  '  How  is  your 
daughter,  Madame  John  ?  '  " 

The  daughter's  face  was  thrown  into  the  mother's 
lap,  not  so  well  satisfied,  now,  with  God's  handiwork. 
Ah,  how  she  wept !  Sob,  sob,  sob  ;  gasps  and  sighs 
and  stifled  ejaculations,  her  small  right  hand  clinched 
and  beating  on  her  mother's  knee  ;  and  the  mother 
weeping  over  her. 

Kristian  Koppig  shut  his  window.  Nothing  but  a 
generous  heart  and  a  Dutchman's  phlegm  could  have 
done  so  at  that  moment.  And  even  thou,  Kristian 
Koppig  ! for  the  window  closed  very  slowly. 

He  wrote  to  his  mother,  thus  : 

"  In  this  wicked  city,  I  see  none  so  fair  as  the  poor 
girl  who  lives  opposite  me,  and  who,  alas  !  though  so 
fair,  is  one  of  those  whom  the  taint  of  caste  has 
cursed.  She  lives  a  lonely,  innocent  life  in  the  midst 
of  corruption,  like  the  lilies  I  find  here  in  the  marshes, 
and  I  have  great  pity  for  her.  '  God  defend  her, '  I 
said  to-night  to  a  fellow  clerk,  '  I  see  no  help  for  her.' 
I  know  there  is  a  natural,  and  I  think  proper,  horror 


'TITE  POULETTE.  223 

of  mixed  blood  (excuse  the  mention,  sweet  mother), 
and  I  feel  it,  too ;  and  yet  if  she  were  in  Holland  to- 
day, not  one  of  a  hundred  suitors  would  detect  the 
hidden  blemish." 

In  such  strain  this  young  man  wrote  on  trying  to 
demonstrate  the  utter  impossibility  of  his  ever  loving 
the  lovable  unfortunate,  until  the  midnight  tolling  of 
the  cathedral  clock  sent  him  to  bed. 

About  the  same  hour  Zalli  and  'Tite  Poulette  were 
kissing  good-night. 

"  'Tite  Poulette,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  one 
thing." 

"Well,  Maman?" 

"If  any  gentleman  should  ever  love  you  and  ask 
you  to  marry,  —  not  knowing,  you  know,  —  promise 
me  you  will  not  tell  him  you  are  not  white." 

"  It  can  never  be,"  said  'Tite  Poulette. 

"But  if  it  should,"  said  Madame  John  plead- 
ingly. 

"And  break  the  law?"  asked  'Tite  Poulette,  im- 
patiently. 

"  But  the  law  is  unjust,"  said  the  mother. 

"But  it  is  the  law!" 

"  But  you  will  not,  dearie,  will  you?  " 

' '  I  would  surely  tell  him  ! ' '  said  the  daughter. 

When  Zalli,  for  some  cause,  went  next  morning  to 
the  window,  she  started. 

"  'Tite  Poulette  !  "  — she  called  softly  without  mov- 
ing. The  daughter  came.  The  young  man,  whose 
idea  of  propriety  had  actuated  him  to  this  display, 
was  sitting  in  the  dormer  window,  reading.     Mother 


224  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

and  daughter  bent  a  steady  gaze  at  each  other.  It 
meant  in  French,  "If  he  saw  us  last  night !  "  — 

"Ah!  dear,"  said  the  mother,  her  face  beaming 
with  fun  — 

"  What  can  it  be,  Maman?  " 

' '  He  speaks  —  oh !  ha,  ha  !  —  he  speaks  —  such 
miserable  French !  " 

It  came  to  pass  one  morning  at  early  dawn  that  Zalli 
and  'Tite  Poulette,  going  to  mass,  passed  a  cafe,  just 
as  —  who  should  be  coining  out  but  Monsieur,  the 
manager  of  the  Salle  de  Conde.  He  had  not  yet  gone 
to  bed.  Monsieur  was  astonished.  He  had  a  French- 
man's eye  for  the  beautiful,  and  certainly  there  the 
beautiful  was.  He  had  heard  of  Madame  John's 
daughter,  and  had  hoped  once  to  see  her,  but  did  not ; 
but  could  this  be  she  ? 

They  disappeared  within  the  cathedral.  A  sudden 
pang  of  piety  moved  him  ;  he  followed.  'Tite  Pou- 
lette was  already  kneeling  in  the  aisle.  Zalli,  still  in 
the  vestibule,  was  just  taking  her  hand  from  the  font 
of  holy-water. 

"  Madame  John,"  whispered  the  manager. 

She  courtesied. 

"Madame  John,  that  young  lady  —  is  she  your 
daughter?  " 

"She  —  she  —  is  my  daughter,"  said  Zalli,  with 
somewhat  of  alarm  in  her  face,  which  the  manager 
misinterpreted. 

"  I  think  not,  Madame  John."  He  shook  his  head, 
smiling  as  one  too  wise  to  be  fooled. 


'TITE  POULETTE.  225 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  she  is  my  daughter." 

"O  no,  Madame  John,  it  is  only  make-believe,  I 
think." 

"  I  swear  she  is,  Monsieur  de  la  Rue." 

"  Is  that  possible?  "  pretending  to  waver,  but  con- 
vinced in  his  heart  of  hearts,  by  Zalli's  alarm,  that 
she  was  lying.  "  But  how?  Why  does  she  not  come 
to  our  ball-room  with  you?  " 

Zalli,  trying  to  get  away  from  him,  shrugged  and 
smiled.  "  Each  to  his  taste,  Monsieur  ;  it  pleases  her 
not." 

She  was  escaping,  but  he  followed  one  step  more. 
"  I  shall  come  to  see  you,  Madame  John." 

She  whirled  and  attacked  him  with  her  eyes.  "  Mon- 
sieur must  not  give  himself  the  trouble  !  "  she  said,  the 
eyes  at  the  same  time  adding,  "  Dare  to  come  !  "  She 
turned  again,  and  knelt  to  her  devotions.  The  mana- 
ger dipped  in  the  font,  crossed  himself,  and  de- 
parted. 

Several  weeks  went  by,  and  M.  de  la  Rue  had  not 
accepted  the  fierce  challenge  of  Madame  John's  eyes. 
One  or  two  Sunday  nights  she  had  succeeded  in  avoid- 
ing him,  though  fulfilling  her  engagement  in  the  Salle; 
but  by  and  by  pay-day,  —  a  Saturday,  —  came  round, 
and  though  the  pay  was  ready,  she  was  loath  to  go  up 
to  Monsieur's  little  office. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  May.  Madame  John  came 
to  her  own  room,  and,  with  a  sigh,  sank  into  a  chair. 
Her  eyes  were  wet. 

"Did  you  go  to  his  office,  dear  mother?"  asked 
'Tite  Poulette. 


226  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

"I  could  not,"  she  answered,  dropping  her  face  in 
her  hands. 

"  Maman,  he  has  seen  me  at  the  window !  " 

"  While  I  was  gone?  "  cried  the  mother. 

' '  lie  passed  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  He 
looked  up  purposely,  and  saw  me."  The  speaker's 
cheeks  were  burning  red. 

Zalli  wrung  her  hands. 

"  It  is  nothing,  mother  ;  do  not  go  near  him." 

"  But  the  pa}?,  my  child." 

"  The  pay  matters  not." 

"  But  he  will  bring  it  here  ;  he  wants  the  chance." 

That  was  the  trouble,  sure  enough. 

About  this  time  Kristian  Koppig  lost  his  position  in 
the  German  importing  house  where,  he  had  fondly  told 
his  mother,  he  was  indispensable. 

"Summer  was  coming  on,"  the  senior  said,  "and 
you  see  our  young  men  are  almost  idle.  Yes,  our  en- 
gagement was  for  a  year,  but  ah  —  we  could  not  fore- 
see " —  etc.,  etc.,  "besides"  (attempting  a  parting 
flattery),  "your  father  is  a  rich  gentleman,  and  you 
can  afford  to  take  the  summer  easy.  If  we  can  ever 
be  of  any  service  to  you,"  etc.,  etc. 

So  the  young  Dutchman  spent  the  afternoons  at  his 
dormer  window  reading  and  glancing  down  at  the  little 
casement  opposite,  where  a  small,  rude  shelf  had 
lately  been  put  out,  holding  a  row  of  cigar-boxes  with 
wretched  little  botanical  specimens  in  them  trying  to 
die.  'Tite  Poulette  was  their  gardener ;  and  it  was 
odd  to  see,  —  dry  weather  or  wet,  —  how  many  water- 
ings per  clay  those  plants  could  take.    She  never  looked 


'TITE  POULETTE.  227 

up  from  her  task ;  but  I  know  she  performed  it  with 
that  unacknowledged  pleasure  which  all  girls  love  and 
deny,  that  of  being  looked  upon  by  noble  eyes. 

On  this  peculiar  Saturday  afternoon  in  May,  Kristian 
Koppig  had  been  witness  of  the  distressful  scene  over 
the  way.  It  occurred  to  'Tite  Poulette  that  such  might 
be  the  case,  and  she  stepped  to  the  casement  to  shut 
it.  As  she  did  so,  the  marvellous  delicacy  of  Kristian 
Koppig  moved  him  to  draw  in  one  of  his  shutters. 
Both  young  heads  came  out  at  one  moment,  while  at 
the  same  instant  — 

"  Rap,  rap,  rap,  rap,  rap  !  "clanked  the  knocker  on 
the  wicket.  The  black  eyes  of  the  maiden  and  the 
blue  over  the  way,  from  looking  into  each  other  for 
the  first  time  in  life,  glanced  down  to  the  arched  door- 
way upon  Monsieur  the  manager.  Then  the  black 
eyes  disappeared  within,  and  Kristian  Koppig  thought 
again,  and  re-opening  his  shutter,  stood  up  at  the  win- 
dow prepared  to  become  a  bold  spectator  of  what 
might  follow. 

But  for  a  moment  nothing  followed. 

"  Trouble  over  there,"  thought  the  rosy  Dutchman, 
and  waited.  The  manager  waited  too,  rubbing  his  hat 
and  brushing  his  clothes  with  the  tips  of  his  kidded 
fingers. 

"They  do  not  wish  to  see  him,"  slowly  concluded 
the  spectator. 

"  Rap,  rap,  rap,  rap,  rap  !  "  quoth  the  knocker,  and 
M.  de  la  Rue  looked  up  around  at  the  windows  op- 
posite and  noticed  the  handsome  young  Dutchman 
looking  at  him. 


228  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

"Dutch!"  said  the  manager  softly,  between  his 
teeth. 

"He  is  staring  at  me,"  said  Kristian  Koppig  to 
himself;  —  "but  then  I  am  staring  at  him,  which  ac- 
counts for  it." 

A  long  pause,  and  then  another  long  rapping. 

"  They  want  him  to  go  away,"  thought  Koppig. 

"Knock  hard  !  "  suggested  a  street  youngster,  stand- 
ing by. 

"Rap,  rap" —  The  manager  had  no  sooner  re- 
commenced than  several  neighbors  looked  out  of  doors 
and  windows. 

"Very  bad,"  thought  our  Dutchman;  "somebody 
should  make  him  go  off.  I  wonder  what  they  will 
do." 

The  manager  stepped  into  the  street,  looked  up  at 
the  closed  window,  returned  to  the  knocker,  and  stood 
with  it  in  his  hand. 

"  They  are  all  gone  out,  Monsieur,"  said  the  street- 
youngster. 

"  You  lie  !  "  said  the  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 

"  Ah  !  "  thought  Kristian  Koppig  ;  "  I  will  go  down 
and  ask  him  ' '  —  Here  his  thoughts  lost  outline  ;  he 
was  only  convinced  that  he  had  somewhat  to  say  to 
him,  and  turned  to  go  down  stairs.  In  going  he  be- 
came a  little  vexed  with  himself  because  he  could  not 
help  hurrying.  He  noticed,  too,  that  his  arm  holding 
the  stair-rail  trembled  in  a  silly  way,  whereas  he  was 
perfectly  calm.  Precisely  as  he  reached  the  street- 
door  the  manager  raised  the  knocker ;  but  the  latch 
clicked  and  the  wicket  was  drawn  slightly  ajar. 


'TIT3S  POULETTE.  229 

Inside  could  just  be  descried  Madame  John.  The 
manager  bowed,  smiled,  talked,  talked  on,  held  money 
in  his  hand,  bowed,  smiled,  talked  on,  flourished  the 
money,  smiled,  bowed,  talked  on  and  plainly  persisted 
in  some  intention  to  which  Madame  John  was  stead- 
fastly opposed. 

The  window  above,  too, — it  was  Kristian  Koppig 
who  noticed  that,  — opened  a  wee  bit,  like  the  shell  of 
a  terrapin.  Presently  the  manager  lifted  his  foot  and 
put  forward  an  arm,  as  though  he  would  enter  the  gate 
by  pushing,  but  as  quick  as  gunpowder  it  clapped  — 
in  his  face ! 

You  could  hear  the  fleeing  feet  of  Zalli  pounding  up 
the  staircase. 

As  the  panting  mother  re-entered  her  room,  "See, 
Maman,"  said  'Tite  Poulette,  peeping  at  the  window, 
"  the  young  gentleman  from  over  the  way  has 
crossed !  " 

"  Holy  Mary  bless  him  !  "  said  the  mother. 

"I  will  go  over,"  thought  Kristian  Koppig,  "and 
ask  him  kindly  if  he  is  not  making  a  mistake." 

"What  are  they  doing,  dear?"  asked  the  mother, 
with  clasped  hands. 

"  They  are  talking  ;  the  young  man  is  tranquil,  but 
'Sieur  de  la  Rue  is  very  angry,"  whispered  the 
daughter;  and  just  then  —  pang!  came  a  sharp,  keen 
sound  rattling  up  the  walls  on  either  side  of  the  nar- 
row way,  and  "  Aha  !  "  and  laughter  and  clapping  of 
female  hands  from  two  or  three  windows. 

"  Oh  !  what  a  slap  !  "  cried  the  girl,  half  in  fright, 
half  in  glee,  jerking  herself  back  from  the  casement 


230  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

simultaneously  with  the  report.  But  the  "  alias  "  and 
.laughter,  and  clapping  of  feminine  hands,  which  still 
continued,  came  from  another  cause.  'Tite  Poulette's 
rapid  action  had  struck  the  slender  cord  that  held  up 
an  end  of  her  hanging  garden,  and  the  whole  rank  of 
cigar-boxes  slid  from  their  place,  turned  gracefully 
over  as  they  shot  through  the  air,  and  emptied  them- 
themselves  plump  upon  the  head  of  the  slapped  mana- 
ger. Breathless,  dirty,  pale  as  whitewash,  he  gasped  a 
threat  to  be  heard  from  again,  and,  getting  round  the 
corner  as  quick  as  he  could  walk,  left  Kristian  Koppig, 
standing  motionless,  the  most  astonished •  man  in  that 
street. 

"Kristian  Koppig,  Kristian  Koppig,"  said  Great- 
heart  to  himself,  slowly  dragging  up-stairs,  "what  a 
mischief  you  have  done.  One  poor  woman  certainly 
to  be  robbed  of  her  bitter  wages,  and  another  —  so 
lovely  !  —  put  to  the  burning  shame  of  being  the  sub- 
ject of  a  street  brawl !  What  will  this  silly  neighbor- 
hood say  ?  '  Has  the  gentleman  a  heart  as  well  as  a 
hand?'  '  Is  it  jealousy  ?  '  "  There  he  paused,  afraid 
himself  to  answer  the  supposed  query  ;  and  then  — 
"  Oh  !  Kristian  Koppig,  you  have  been  such  a  dunce  !  " 
"  And  I  cannot  apologize  to  them.  Who  in  this  street 
would  carry  my  note,  and  not  wink  and  grin  over  it 
with  low  surmises?  I  cannot  even  make  restitution. 
Money  ?  They  would  not  dare  receive  it.  Oh  !  Kris- 
tian Koppig,  why  did  yow  not  mind  your  own  business? 
Is  she  any  thing  to  you?  Do  you  love  her?  Of  course 
not  I     Oh  !  —  such  a  dunce  ! ' ' 

The  reader  will  eagerly  admit  that  however  faulty 


>TITE  POULETTE.  231 

this  young  man's  course  of  reasoning,  his  conclusion 
was  correct.     For  mark  what  he  did. 

He  went  to  his  room,  which  was  already  growing 
dark,  shut  his  window,  lighted  his  big  Dutch  lamp, 
and  sat  down  to  write.  "  Something  must  be  done," 
said  he  aloud,  taking  up  his  pen;  "I  will  be  calm 
and  cool ;  I  will  be  distant  and  brief ;  but  —  I  shall 
have  to  be  kind  or  I  may  offend.  Ah  !  I  shall  have  to 
write  ill  French ;  I  forgot  that ;  I  write  it  so  poorly, 
dunce  that  I  am,  when  all  my  brothers  and  sisters 
speak  it  so  well."  He  got  out  his  French  dictionary. 
Two  hours  slipped  by.  He  made  a  new  pen,  washed 
and  refilled  his  inkstand,  mended  his  "  abominable  !  " 
chair,  and  after  two  hours  more  made  another  attempt, 
and  another  failure.  "My  head  aches,"  said  he,  and 
lay  down  on  his  couch,  the  better  to  frame  his 
phrases. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  Sabbath  sunlight.  The 
bells  of  the  Cathedral  and  the  Ursulines'  chapel  were 
ringing  for  high  mass,  and  a  mockiug-bird,  perching 
on  a  chimney-top  above  Madame  John's  rooms,  was 
carolling,  whistling,  mewing,  chirping,  screaming,  and 
trilling  with  the  ecstasy  of  a  whole  May  in  his  throat. 
"  Oh  !  sleepy  Kristian  Koppig,"  was  the  young  man's 
first  thought,  "  —  such  a  dunce  !  " 

Madame  John  and  daughter  did  not  go  to  mass. 
The  morning  wore  away,  and  their  casement  remained 
closed.  "  Tbev  arf  offended,"  said  Kristian  Koppig, 
leaving  the  house,  and  wandering  up  to  the  little  Prot- 
estant affair  known  as  Christ  Church. 


282  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"No,  possibly  they  are  not,"  he  said,  returning 
and  finding  the  shutters  thrown  back. 

By  a  sad  accident,  which  mortified  him  extremely, 
he  happened  to  see,  late  in  the  afternoon,  —  hardly 
conscious  that  he  was  looking  across  the  street,  —  that 
Madame  John  was  —  dressing.  Could  it  be  that  she 
was  going  to  the  Salle  de  Condi?  He  rushed  to  his 
table,  and  began  to  write. 

He  had  guessed  aright.  The  wages  were  too  pre- 
cious to  be  lost.  The  manager  had  written  her  a  note. 
He  begged  to  assure  her  that  he  was  a  gentleman  of 
the  clearest  cut.  If  he  had  made  a  mistake  the  pre- 
vious afternoon,  he  was  glad  no  unfortunate  result 
had  followed  except  his  having  been  assaulted  by  a 
ruffian  ;  that  the  Danse  du  Shawl  was  promised  in  his 
advertisement,  and  he  hoped  Madame  John  (whose 
wages  were  in  hand  waiting  for  her)  would  not  fail  to 
assist  as  usual.  Lastly,  and  delicately  put,  he  ex- 
pressed his  conviction  that  Mademoiselle  was  wise  and 
discreet  in  declining  to  entertain  gentlemen  at  her 
home. 

So,  against  much  beseeching  on  the  part  of  'Tite 
Poulette,  Madame  John  was  going  to  the  ball-room. 
"  Maybe  I  can  discover  what  'Sieur  de  la  Rue  is  plan- 
ning against  Monsieur  over  the  way,"  she  said,  know- 
ing certainly  the  slap  would  not  be  forgiven  ;  and  the 
daughter,  though  tremblingly,  at  once  withdrew  her 
objections. 

The  heavy  young  Dutchman,  now  thoroughly  elec- 
trified, was  writing  like  mad.  He  wrote  and  tore  up, 
wrote  and  tore  up,  lighted  his  lamp,  started  again,  and 


'TITE  POULETTE.  283 

at  last  signed  his  name.  A  letter  by  a  Dutchman  in 
French  !  —  what  can  be  made  of  it  in  English  ?  We 
will  see : 

"Madame  and  Mademoiselle: 

"A  stranger,  seeking  not  to  be  acquainted,  but  seeing  and 
admiring  all  days  tlie  goodness  and  bigb  bonor,  begs  to  be  par- 
doned of  tbem  for  the  mistakes,  alas!  of  yesterday,  and  to 
make  reparation  and  satisfaction  in  destroying  the  ornaments 
of  the  window,  as  well  as  the  loss  of  compensation  from  Mon- 
sieur the  manager,  with  the  enclosed  bill  of  the  Banque  de  la 
Louisiane  for  fifty  dollars  ($50).  And,  hoping  they  will  seeing 
what  he  is  meaning,  remains,  respectfully, 

"  Kristian  Koppia. 
"P.S.  — Madame  must  not  go  to  the  ball." 

He  must  bear  the  missive  himself.  He  must  speak 
in  French.  What  should  the  words  be?  A  moment 
of  study  —  he  has  it,  and  is  off  down  the  long  three- 
story  stairway.  At  the  same  moment  Madame  John 
stepped  from  the  wicket,  and  glided  off  to  the  Salle 
de  Concle,  a  trifle  late. 

"I  shall  see  Madame  John,  of  course,"  thought 
the  young  man,  crushing  a  hope,  and  rattled  the 
knocker.  'Tite  Poulette  sprang  up  from  praying  for 
her  mother's  safety.  "What  has  she  forgotten?" 
she  asked  herself,  and  hastened  down.  The  wicket 
opened.     The  two  innocents  were  stunned. 

"Aw  —  aw"  —  said  the  pretty  Dutchman,  "aw," 
—  blurted  out  something  in  virgin  Dutch,  .  .  .  hand- 
ed her  the  letter,  and  hurried  down  street. 

"Alas!  what  have  I  done?"  said  the  poor  girl, 
bending  over  her  candle,  and  bursting  into  tears  that 


234  0LD  CBEOLE  DAYS. 

fell  on  the  unopened  letter.  "And  what  shall  I  do? 
It  may  be  wrong  to  open  it  —  and  worse  not  to." 
Like  her  sex,  she  took  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  and 
intensified  her  perplexity  and  misery  by  reading  and 
misconstruing  the  all  but  unintelligible  contents. 
What  then?  Not  only  sobs  and  sighs,  but  moaning 
and  beating  of  little  fists  together,  and  outcries  of 
soul-felt  agony  stifled  against  the  bedside,  and  tem- 
ples pressed  into  knitted  palms,  because  of  one  who 
"  sought  not  to  be  acquainted,"  but  offered  money  — 
money  !  —  in  pity  to  a  poor  —  shame  on  her  for  saying 
that !  —  a  poor  nigresse. 

And  now  our  self-confessed  dolt  turned  back  from  a 
half-hour's  walk,  concluding  there  might  be  an  answer 
to  his  note.  "  Surely  Madame  John  will  appear  this 
time."  He  knocked.  The  shutter  stirred  above,  and 
something  white  came  fluttering  wildly  down  like  a 
shot  dove.  It  was  his  own  letter  containing  the  fifty- 
dollar  bill.  He  bounded  to  the  wicket,  and  softly  but 
eagerly  knocked  again. 

"  Go  away,"  said  a  trembling  voice  from  above. 

"  Madame  John?  "  said  he  ;  but  the  window  closed, 
and  he  heard  a  step,  the  same  step  on  the  stair.  Step, 
step,  every  step  one  step  deeper  into  his  heart.  'Tite 
Poulette  came  to  the  closed  door. 

"  What  will  you?  "  said  the  voice  within. 

"I  —  I  —  don't  wish  to  see  you.  I  wish  to  see 
Madame  John." 

"  I  must  pray  Monsieur  to  go  away.  My  mother  is 
at  the  Salle  cle  Conde." 

"At  the  ball!"     Kristian  Koppig  strayed  off,  re- 


'TITE  POULETTE.  235 

peating  the  words  for  want  of  definite  thought.  All  at 
once  it  occurred  to  him  that  at  the  ball  he  could  make 
Madame  John's  acquaintance  with  impunity.  "Was 
it  courting  sin  to  go  ?  "  By  no  means ;  he  should, 
most  likely,  save  a  woman  from  trouble,  and  help  the 
poor  in  their  distress. 

Behold  Kristian  Koppig  standing  on  the  floor  of  the 
Salle  de  Conde.  A  large  hall,  a  blaze  of  lamps,  a  be- 
wildering flutter  of  fans  and  floating  robes,  strains 
of  music,  columns  of  gay  promenaders,  a  long  row  of 
turbaned  mothers  lining  either  wall,  gentlemen  of  the 
portlier  sort  filling  the  recesses  of  the  windows,  whirl- 
ing waltzers  glidiug  here  and  there  —  smiles  and  grace, 
smiles  and  grace  ;  all  fair,  orderly,  elegant,  bewitch- 
ing. A  young  Creole's  laugh  mayhap  a  little  loud, 
and  —  truly  there  were  many  sword-canes.  But 
neither  grace  nor  foulness  satisfied  the  eye  of  the 
zealous  young  Dutchman. 

Suddenly  a  muffled  woman  passed  him,  leaning  on  a 
gentleman's  arm.  It  looked  like  —  it  must  be,  Ma- 
dame John.  Speak  quick,  Kristian  Koppig ;  do  not 
stop  to  notice  the  man  ! 

' '  Madame  John  ' '  —  bowing  —  "I  am  your  neigh- 
bor, Kristian  Koppig." 

Madame  John  bows  low,  and  smiles  —  a  ball-room 
smile,  but  is  frightened,  and  her  escort,  —  the  man- 
ager, —  drops  her  hand  and  slips  away. 

"Ah!  Monsieur,"  she  whispers  excitedly,  "you 
will  be  killed  if  you  stay  here  a  moment.  Are  you 
armed?  No.  Take  this."  She  tried  to  slip  a  dirk 
into  his  hands,  but  he  would  not  have  it. 


286  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"Oh,  my  dear  young  man,  go  !  Go  quickly  !  "  she 
plead,  glancing  furtively  down  the  hall. 

"  I  wish  you  not  to  dance,"  said  the  young  man. 

"I  have  danced  already  ;  I  am  going  home.  Come  ; 
be  quick !  we  will  go  together. ' '  She  thrust  her  arm 
through  his,  and  they  hastened  into  the  street.  When 
a  square  had  been  passed  there  came  a  sound  of  men 
running  behind  them. 

"  Run,  Monsieur,  run  !  "  she  cried,  trying  to  drag 
him  ;  but  Monsieur  Dutchman  would  not. 

"  R un,  Monsieur !     Oh,  my  God  !  it  is  'Sieur  "  — 

' '  That  for  yesterday  ! ' '  cried  the  manager,  striking 
fiercely  with  his  cane.  Kristian  Koppig's  fist  rolled 
him  in  the  dirt. 

"  That  for  'Tite  Poulette  !  "  cried  another  man  deal- 
ing the  Dutchman  a  terrible  blow  from  behind. 

' '  And  that  for  me  !  "  hissed  a  third,  thrusting  at 
him  with  something  bright. 

"  That  for  yesterday!"  screamed  the  manager, 
bounding  like  a  tiger  ;  "  That !  "  "  That  !  "  "  Ha  !  " 

Then  Kristian  Koppig  knew  that  he  was  stabbed. 

"That!"  and  "That!"  and  "That!"  and  the 
poor  Dutchman  struck  wildly  here  and  there,  grasped 
the  air,  shut  his  eyes,  staggered,  reeled,  fell,  rose  half 
up,  fell  again  for  good,  and  they  were  kicking  him  and 
jumping  on  him.  All  at  once  they  scampered.  Zalli 
had  found  the  night-watch. 

"  Buz-z-z-z  !  "  went  a  rattle.  "  Buz-z-z-z  !  "  went 
another. 

"Pick  him  up." 

"Is  he  alive?" 


'TITE  POULETTE.  237 

"  Can't  tell ;  hold  him  steady  ;  lead  the  way,  misses." 

"He's  bleeding  all  over  my  breeches." 

' '  This  way  —  here  —  around  this  corner. ' ' 

"  This  way  now  —  only  two  squares  more." 

"Here  we  are." 

"  Rap-rap-rap  !  "  on  the  old  brass  knocker.  Curses 
on  the  narrow  wicket,  more  on  the  dark  archway,  more 
still  on  the  twisting  stairs. 

Up  at  last  and  into  the  room. 

"  Easy,  easy,  push  this  under  his  head  !  never  mind 
his  boots !  " 

So  he  lies  —  on  'Tite  Poulette's  own  bed. 

The  watch  are  gone.  The}^  pause  under  the  corner 
lamp  to  count  profits;  —  a  single  bill  —  Banque  de  la 
Jjouisiane,  fifty  dollars.  Providence  is  kind  —  toler- 
ably so.  Break  it  at  the  "  Guillaume  Tell."  "But 
did  you  ever  hear  any  one  scream  like  that  girl  did?" 

And  there  lies  the  young  Dutch  neighbor.  Hia 
money  will  not  flutter  back  to  him  this  time  ;  nor  will 
any  voice  behind  a  gate  "  beg  Monsieur  to  go  away." 
O,  Woman!  —  that  knows  no  enemy  so  terrible  as 
man  !  Come  nigh,  poor  Woman,  you  have  nothing  to 
fear.  Lay  your  strange,  electric  touch  upon  the  chilly 
flesh ;  it  strikes  no  eager  mischief  along  the  fainting 
veins.  Look  your  sweet  looks  upon  the  grimy  face, 
and  tenderly  lay  back  the  locks  from  the  congested 
brows  ;  no  wicked  misinterpretation  lurks  to  bite  your 
kindness.  Be  motherly,  be  sisterly,  fear  nought.  Go, 
watch  him  by  night ;  you  may  sleep  at  his  feet  and  he 
will  not  stir.  Yet  he  lives,  and  shall  live  —  may  live 
to  forget  you,  who  knows?    But  for  all  that,  be  gentle 


238  OLD   CREOLE  BAYS. 

and  watchful ;  be  womanlike,  we  ask  no  more ;  and 
God  reward  you ! 

Even  while  it  was  taking  all  the  two  women's 
strength  to  hold  the  door  against  Death,  the  sick  man 
himself  laid  a  grief  upon  them. 

"  Mother,"  he  said  to  Madame  John,  quite  a  master 
of  French  in  his  delirium,  "dear  mother,  fear  not; 
trust  your  boy  ;  fear  nothing.  I  will  not  marry  'Tite 
Poulette  ;  I  cannot.  She  is  fair,  dear  mother,  but  ah  ! 
she  is  not  —  don't  you  know,  mother?  don't  you 
know?  The  race!  the  race!  Don't  you  know  that 
she  is  jet  black.     Isn't  it?  " 

The  poor  nurse  nodded  "  Yes,"  and  gave  a  sleeping 
draught ;  but  before  the  patient  quite  slept  he  started 
once  and  stared. 

"  Take  her  away,"  —  waving  his  hand  —  "  take  your 
beauty  away.  She  is  jet  white.  Who  could  take  a 
jet  white  wife?     O,  no,  no,  no,  no  !  " 

Next  morning  his  brain  was  right. 

"  Madame,"  he  weakly  whispered,  "  I  was  delirious 
last  night?" 

Zalli  shrugged.  "Only  a  very,  very,  wee,  wee  trifle 
of  a  bit." 

"  And  did  I  say  something  wrong  or  —  foolish?  " 

"  O,  no,  no,"  she  replied  ;  "  you  only  clasped  your 
hands,  so,  and  prayed,  prayed  all  the  time  to  the  dear 
Virgin." 

"  To  the  virgin?  "  asked  the  Dutchman,  smiling  in- 
credulously. 

"And  St.  Joseph  —  yes,  indeed,"  she  insisted; 
"  you  may  strike  me  dead." 


'TITE  POULETTE.  239 

And  so,  for  politeness'  sake,  he  tried  to  credit  the 
invention,  but  grew  suspicious  instead. 

Hard  was  the  battle  against  death.  Nurses  are 
sometimes  amazons,  and  such  were  these.  Through 
the  long,  enervating  summer,  the  contest  lasted ;  but 
when  at  last  the  cool  airs  of  October  came  stealing  in 
at  the  bedside  like  long-banished  little  children,  Kris- 
tian  Koppig  rose  upon  his  elbow  and  smiled  them  a 
welcome. 

The  physician,  blessed  man,  was  kind  beyond  meas- 
ure ;  but  said  some  inexplicable  things,  which  Zalli 
tried  in  vain  to  make  him  speak  in  an  undertone.  "If 
I  knew  Monsieur  John?  "  he  said,  "  certainly  !  "Why, 
we  were  chums  at  school.  And  he  left  you  so  much 
as  that,  Madame  John  ?  Ah !  my  old  friend  John, 
always  noble  !  And  you  had  it  all  :n  that  naughty 
bank?  Ah,  well,  Madame  John,  it  matters  little. 
No,  I  shall  not  tell  'Tite  Poulette.     Adieu." 

And  another  time :  —  "If  I  will  let  you  tell  me 
something?  With  pleasure,  Madame  John.  No,  and 
not  tell  anybody,  Madame  John.  No,  Madame,  not 
even  'Tite  Poulette.  What?  "  — a  long  whistle —  "  is 
that  pos-si-ble  ?  —  and  Monsieur  John  knew  it  ?  —  en- 
couraged it?  —  eh,  well,  eh,  well!  —  But — can  I  be- 
lieve you,  Madame  John?  Oh!  you  have  Monsieur 
John's  sworn  statement.  Ah  !  very  good,  truly,  but  — 
you  say  you  have  it ;  but  where  is  it  ?  Ah !  to-mor- 
row!  "  a  sceptical  shrug.  "Pardon  me,  Madame 
John,  I  think  perhaps,  perhaps  you  are  telling  the 
truth. 

"If  I  think  you  did  right?     Certainly!     What  na- 


240  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

ture  keeps  back,  accident  sometimes  gives,  Madame 
John  ;  either  is  God's  will.  Don't  cry.  '  Stealing 
from  the  dead?'  No!  It  was  giving,  yes!  They 
are  thanking  you  in  heaven,  Madame  John." 

Kristian  Koppig,  lying  awake,  but  motionless  and 
with  closed  eyes,  hears  in  part,  and,  fancying  he  under- 
stands, rejoices  with  silent  intensity.  When  the  doc- 
tor is  gone  he  calls  Zalli. 

"I  give  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  eh,  Madame 
John?" 

"  No,  no  ;  you  are  no  trouble  at  all.  Had  you  the 
yellow  fever  —  ah !  then  !  " 

She  rolled  her  eyes  to  signify  the  superlative  charac- 
ter of  the  tribulations  attending  yellow  fever. 

' '  I  had  a  lady  and  gentleman  once  —  a  Spanish  lady 
and  gentleman,  just  off  the  ship ;  both  sick  at  once 
with  the  fever  —  delirious  —  could  not  tell  their  names. 
Nobody  to  help  me  but  sometimes  Monsieur  John  !  I 
never  had  such  a  time,  — never  before,  never  since,  — 
as  that  time.  Four  clays  and  nights  this  head  touched 
not  a  pillow." 

"  And  they  died  !  "  said  Kristian  Koppig. 

"  The  third  night  the  gentleman  went.  Poor  SeSor  ! 
'Sieur  John,  —  he  did  not  know  the  harm,  —  gave  him 
some  coffee  and  toast !  The  fourth  night  it  rained  and 
turned  cool,  and  just  before  day  the  poor  lady  "  — 

"  Died  !  "  said  Koppig. 

Zalli  dropped  her  arms  listlessly  into  her  lap  and  her 
eyes  ran  brimful. 

"And  left  an  infant !  "  said  the  Dutchman,  ready  to 
shout  with  exultation. 


'TITE  POULETTE.  241 

"  Ah !  no,  Monsieur,"  said  Zalli. 

The  invalid's  heart  sank  like  a  stone. 

"  Madame  John," — his  voice  was  all  in  a  tremor, 
—  "tell  me  the  truth.  Is  'Tite  Poulette  your  own 
child?" 

"Ah-h-h,  ha!  ha!  what  foolishness!  Of  course 
she  is  my  child  !  "  And  Madame  gave  vent  to  a  true 
Frenchwoman's  laugh. 

It  was  too  much  for  the  sick  man.  In  the  pitiful 
weakness  of  his  shattered  nerves  he  turned  his  face 
into  his  pillow  and  wept  like  a  child.  Zalli  passed 
into  the  next  room  to  hide  her  emotion. 

"  Maman,  dear  Maman,"  said  'Tite  Poulette,  who 
had  overheard  nothing,  but  only  saw  the  tears. 

"Ah!  my  child,  my  child,  my  task  —  my  task  is 
too  great — too  great  forme.  Let  me  go  now  —  an- 
other time.     Go  and  watch  at  his  bedside." 

"But,  Maman,"  —  for  'Tite  Poulette  was  fright- 
ened, —  "he  needs  no  care  now." 

"  Nay,  but  go,  my  child  ;  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

The  maiden  stole  in  with  averted  eyes  and  tiptoed 
to  the  window  —  that  window.  The  patient,  already  a 
man  again,  gazed  at  her  till  she  could  feel  the  gaze. 
He  turned  his  eyes  from  her  a  moment  to  gather  reso- 
lution. And  now,  stout  heart,  farewell ;  a  word  or 
two  of  friendly  parting  —  nothing  more. 

"  'Tite  Poulette." 

The  slender  figure  at  the  window  turned  and  came 
to  the  bedside. 

"  I  believe  I  owe  my  life  to  you,"  he  said. 

She  looked  down  meekly,  the  color  rising  in  her  cheek. 


242  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

"  I  must  arrange  to  be  moved  across  the  street,  to- 
morrow, on  a  litter." 

She  did  not  stir  or  speak. 

"  And  I  must  now  thank  you,  sweet  nurse,  for  your 
care.     Sweet  nurse  !  Sweet  nurse  !  " 

She  shook  her  head  in  protestation. 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  'Tite  Poulette  !  " 

Her  face  sank  lower. 

"God  has  made  you  very  beautiful,  'Tite  Pou- 
lette!" 

She  stirred  not.  He  reached,  and  gently  took  her 
little  hand,  and  as  he  drew  her  one  step  nearer,  a  tear 
fell  from  her  long  lashes.  From  the  next  room,  Zalli, 
with  a  face  of  agonized  suspense,  gazed  upon  the  pair, 
undiscovered.  The  young  man  lifted  the  hand  to  lay 
it  upon  his  lips,  when,  with  a  mild,  firm  force,  it  was 
drawn  away,  yet  still  rested  in  his  own  upon  the  bed- 
side, like  some  weak  thing  snared,  that  could  only  not 
get  free. 

"  Thou  wilt  not  have  my  love,  'Tite  Poulette?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Thou  wilt  not,  beautiful?  " 

"  Cannot!  "  was  all  that  she  could  utter,  and  upon 
their  clasped  hands  the  tears  ran  down. 

"  Thou  wrong'st  me,  'Tite  Poulette.  Thou  dost  not 
trust  me  ;  thou  fearest  the  kiss  may  loosen  the  hands. 
But  I  tell  thee  nay.  I  have  struggled  hard,  even  to 
this  hour,  against  Love,  but  I  yield  me  now  ;  I  yield  ; 
I  am  his  unconditioned  prisoner  forever.  God  forbid 
that  I  ask  aught  but  that  you  will  be  my  wife." 

Still  the  maiden  moved  not,  looked  not  up,  only 
rained  down  tears. 


'TITE  POULETTE.  243 

"Shall  it  not  be,  'Tite  Poulette?"  He  tried  in 
vain  to  draw  her. 

'"Tite  Poulette?"  So  tenderly  he  called!  And 
then  she  spoke. 

"It  is  against  the  law." 

"It  is  not!"  cried  Zalli,  seizing  her  round  the 
waist  and  dragging  her  forward.  "Take  her!  she  is 
thine.  I  have  robbed  God  long  enough.  Here  are  the 
sworn  papers  —  here !  Take  her ;  she  is  as  white  as 
snow  —  so  !  Take  her,  kiss  her  ;  Mary  be  praised  !  I 
never  had  a  child  —  she  is  the  Spaniard's  daughter !  " 


'Sieur  George. 


'SIEUR    GEORGE. 


In  the  heart  of  New  Orleans  stands  a  large  four- 
story  brick  building,  that  has  so  stood  for  about  three- 
quarters  of  a  century.  Its  rooms  are  rented  to  a  class 
of  persons  occup}Ting  them  simply  for  lack  of  activity 
to  find  better  and  cheaper  quarters  elsewhere.  With 
its  gray  stucco  peeling  off  in  broad  patches,  it  has  a 
solemn  look  of  gentility  in  rags,  and  stands,  or,  as  it 
were,  hangs,  about  the  corner  of  two  ancient  streets, 
like  a  faded  fop  who  pretends  to  be  looking  for  em- 
ployment. 

Under  its  main  archway  is  a  dingy  apothecary-shop. 
On  one  street  is  the  bazaar  of  a  modiste  en  robes  et 
chapeaux  and  other  humble  shops  ;  on  the  other,  the 
immense  batten  doors  with  gratings  over  the  lintels, 
barred  and  bolted  with  masses  of  cobwebbed  iron, 
like  the  door  of  a  donjon,  are  overhung  by  a  creaking 
sign  (left  by  the  sheriff) ,  on  which  is  faintly  discerni- 
ble the  mention  of  wines  and  liquors.  A  peep  through 
one  of  the  shops  reveals  a  square  court  within,  hung 
with  many  lines  of  wet  clothes,  its  sides  hugged  by 
rotten  staircases  that  seem  vainly  trying  to  clamber 
out  of  the  rubbish. 

247 


248  OLD  CREOLE  DAYS. 

The  neighborhood  is  one  long  since  given  up  to 
fifth-rate  shops,  whose  masters  and  mistresses  display 
such  enticing  mottoes  as  "  Au  gagne  petit !  "  Innu- 
merable children  swarm  about,  and,  by  some  charm  of 
the  place,  are  not  run  over,  but  obstruct  the  sidewalks 
playing  their  clamorous  games.  . 

The  building  is  a  thing  of  many  windows,  where 
passably  good-looking  women  appear  and  disappear, 
clad  in  cotton  gowns,  watering  little  outside  shelves  of 
flowers  and  cacti,  or  hanging  canaries'  cages.  Their 
husbands  are  keepers  in  wine-warehouses,  rent-collect- 
ors for  the  agents  of  old  Frenchmen  who  have  been 
laid  up  to  dry  in  Paris,  custom-house  supernumeraries 
and  court-clerks'  deputies  (for  your  second-rate  Creole 
is  a  great  seeker  for  little  offices) .  A  decaying  cornice 
hangs  over,  dropping  bits  of  mortar  on  passers  below, 
like  a  boy  at  a  boarcling-house. 

The  landlord  is  one  Kookoo,  an  ancient  Creole  of 
doubtful  purity  of  blood,  who  in  his  landlordly  old  age 
takes  all  suggestions  of  repairs  as  personal  insults. 
He  was  but  a  stripling  when  his  father  left  him  this 
inheritance,  and  has  grown  old  and  wrinkled  and 
brown,  a  sort  of  periodically  animate  mummy,  in  the 
business.  He  smokes  cascarilla,  wears  velveteen,  and 
is  as  punctual  as  an  executioner. 

To  Kookoo 's  venerable  property  a  certain  old  man 
used  for  many  years  to  come  every  evening,  stumbling 
through  the  groups  of  prattling  children  who  frolicked 
about  in  the  early  moonlight  —  whose  name  no  one 
knew,  but  whom  all  the  neighbors  designated  by  the 
title  of  'Sieur  George.      It  was  his  wont  to  be  seen 


'SIEUB   GEORGE.  249 

taking  a  straight — too  straight  —  course  toward  his 
home,  never  careening  to  right  or  left,  but  now  forcing 
himself  slowly  forward,  as  though  there  were  a  high 
gale  in  front,  and  now  scudding  briskly  ahead  at  a 
ridiculous  little  dog-trot,  as  if  there  were  a  tornado 
behind.  He  would  go  up  the  main  staircase  very 
carefully,  sometimes  stopping  half-way  up  for  thirty 
or  forty  minutes'  doze,  but  getting  to  the  landing 
eventually,  and  tramping  into  his  room  in  the  second 
story,  with  no  little  elation  to  find  it  still  there.  Were 
it  not  for  these  slight  symptoms  of  potations,  he  was 
such  a  one  as  you  would  pick  ovit  of  a  thousand  for  a 
miser.     A  year  or  two  ago  he  suddenly  disappeared. 

A  great  many  years  ago,  when  the  old  house  was 
still  new,  a  young  man  with  no  baggage  save  a  small 
hair-trunk,  came  and  took  the  room  I  have  mentioned 
and  another  adjoining.  He  supposed  he  might  stay 
fifty  da}'s  —  and  he  staid  fifty  37ears  and  over.  This 
was  a  very  fashionable  neighborhood,  and  he  kept  the 
rooms  on  that  account  month  after  month. 

But  when  he  had  been  here  about  a  year  something 
happened  to  him,  so  it  was  rumored,  that  greatly 
changed  the  tenor  of  his  life  ;  and  from  that  time  on 
there  began  to  appear  in  him  and  to  accumulate  upon 
each  other  in  a  manner  which  became  the  profound 
study  of  Kookoo,  the  symptoms  of  a  decay,  whose 
cause  baffled  the  landlord's  limited  powers  of  conjec- 
ture for  well-nigh  half  a  century.  Hints  of  a  duel,  of 
a  reason  warped,  of  disinheritance,  and  many  other 
unauthorized  rumors,  fluttered  up  and  floated  off, 
while  he  became  recluse,  and,  some  say,  began  inci- 


250  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

dentally  to  betray  the  unmanly  habit  which  we  have 
already  noticed.  His  neighbors  would  have  continued 
neighborly  had  he  allowed  them,  but  he  never  let  him- 
self be  understood,  and  les  Americains  are  very  droll 
anyhow  ;  so,  as  they  could  do  nothing  else,  they  cut  him. 

So  exclusive  he  became  that  (though  it  may  have 
been  for  economy)  he  never  admitted  even  a  house- 
maid, but  kept  his  apartments  himself.  Only  the 
merry  serenaders,  who  in  those  times  used  to  sing 
under  the  balconies,  would  now  and  then  give  him  a 
crumb  of  their  feast  for  pure  fun's  sake  ;  and  after 
a  while,  because  they  could  not  find  out  his  full  name, 
called  him,  at  hazard,  George  —  but  always  prefixing 
Monsieur.  Afterward,  when  he  began  to  be  careless 
in  his  dress,  and  the  fashion  of  serenading  had  passed 
away,  the  commoner  people  dared  to  shorten  the  title 
to  "  'Sieur  George." 

Many  seasons  came  and  went.  The  city  changed 
like  a  growing  boy ;  gentility  and  fashion  went  up- 
town, but  'Sieur  George  still  retained  his  rooms. 
Every  one  knew  him  slightly,  and  bowed,  but  no  one 
seemed  to  know  him  well,  unless  it  were  a  brace  or  so 
of  those  convivial  fellows  in  regulation-blue  at  little 
Fort  St.  Charles.  He  often  came  home  late,  with  one 
of  these  on  either  arm,  all  singing  different  tunes  and 
stopping  at  every  twenty  steps  to  tell  secrets.  But 
by  and  by  the  fort  was  demolished,  church  and  gov- 
errnent  property  melted  down  under  the  warm  demand 
for  building-lots,  the  city  spread  like  a  ringworm,  — 
and  one  day  'Sieur  George  steps  out  of  the  old  house 
in  full  regimentals ! 


'SIEUR   GEORGE.  251 

The  Creole  neighbors  rush  bareheaded  into  the 
middle  of  the  street,  as  though  there  were  an  earth- 
quake or  a  chimney  on  fire.  What  to  do  or  say  or 
think  they  do  not  know ;  they  are  at  their  wits'  ends, 
therefore  well-nigh  happy.  However,  there  is  a  Ger- 
man blacksmith's  shop  near  by,  and  the}r  watch  to  see 
what  Jacob  will  do.  Jacob  steps  into  the  street  with 
every  e}Te  upon  him ;  he  approaches  Monsieur  —  he 
addresses  to  him  a  few  remarks  —  they  shake  hands  — 
they  engage  in  some  conversation  —  Monsieur  places 
his  hand  on  his  sword  !  —  now  Monsieur  passes. 

The  populace  crowd  around  the  blacksmith,  children 
clap  their  hands  softly  and  jump  up  and  down  on  tip- 
toes of  expectation  —  'Sieur  George  is  going  to  the 
war  in  Mexico  ! 

"Ah!"  says  a  little  girl  in  the  throng,  "'Sieur 
George's  two  rooms  will  be  empty ;  I  find  that  very 
droll." 

The  landlord,  —  this  same  Kookoo, — is  in  the 
group.  He  hurls  himself  into  the  house  and  up  the 
stairs.  "Fifteen  years  pass  since  he  have  been  in 
those  room  !  "  He  arrives  at  the  door  —  it  is  shut  — 
"It  is  lock!" 

In  short,  further  investigation  revealed  that  a 
youngish  lady  in  black,  who  had  been  seen  by  several 
neighbors  to  enter  the  house,  but  had  not,  of  course, 
been  suspected  of  such  remarkable  intentions,  had,  in 
company  with  a  middle-aged  slave-woman,  taken  these 
two  rooms,  and  now,  at  the  slightly-opened  door,  prof- 
fered a  month's  rent  in  advance.  What  could  a  land- 
lord  do   but   smile  ?    Yet  there  was  a  pretext  left ; 


252  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"the  rooms  must  need  repairs?" — "No,  sir;  he 
could  look  in  and  see."  Joy  !  he  looked  in.  All  was 
neatness.  The  floor  unbroken,  the  walls  cracked  but 
a  little,  and  the  cracks  closed  with  new  plaster,  no 
doubt  by  the  jealous  hand  of  'Sieur  George  himself. 
Kookoo's  eyes  swept  sharply  round  the  two  apart- 
ments. The  furniture  was  all  there.  Moreover,  there 
was  Monsieur's  little  hair-trunk.  He  should  not  soon 
forget  that  trunk.  One  day,  fifteen  years  or  more 
before,  he  had  taken  hold  of  that  trunk  to  assist  Mon- 
sieur to  arrange  his  apartment,  and  Monsieur  had 
drawn  his  fist  back  and  cried  to  him  to  ' '  drop  it !  " 
Mais!  there  it  was,  looking  very  suspicious  in  Koo- 
koo's ej'es,  and  the  lady's  domestic,  as  tidy  as  a 
yellow-bird,  went  and  sat  on  it.  Could  that  trunk 
contain  treasure?  It  might,  for  Madame  wanted  to 
shut  the  door,  aud,  in  fact,  did  so. 

The  lady  was  quite  handsome  —  had  been  more  so, 
but  was  still  young  —  spoke  the  beautiful  language, 
and  kept,  in  the  inner  room,  her  discreet  and  taciturn 
mulattress,  a  tall,  straight  woman,  with  a  fierce  eye, 
but  called  by  the  young  Creoles  of  the  neighborhood 
"confound'  good  lookin'." 

Among  les  Americaines,  where  the  new  neighbor 
always  expects  to  be  called  upon  by  the  older  resi- 
dents, this  lady  might  have  made  friends  in  spite  of 
being  as  reserved  as  'Sieur  George;  but  the  reverse 
being  the  Creole  custom,  and  she  being  well  pleased  to 
keep  her  own  company,  chose  mystery  rather  than 
society. 

The  poor  landlord  was  sorely  troubled  ;  it  must  not 


'SIEUR   GEORGE.  253 

that  any  thing  cle  trop  take  place  in  his  house.  He 
watched  the  two  rooms  narrowly,  but  without  result, 
save  to  find  that  Madame  plied  her  needle  for  pay, 
spent  her  money  for  little  else  besides  harpstrings, 
and  took  good  care  of  the  little  trunk  of  Monsieur. 
This  espionage  was  a  good  turn  to  the  mistress  and 
maid,  for  when  Kookoo  announced  that  all  was  proper, 
no  more  was  said  by  outsiders.  Their  landlord  never 
got  but  one  question  answered  by  the  middle-aged 
maid: 

"Madame,  he  feared,  was  a  litt'  bit  embarrass' 
pour  money,  eh  ?  " 

"  Non;  Mademoiselle  [Mademoiselle,  you  notice!] 
had  some  property,  but  did  not  want  to  eat  it  up." 

Sometimes  lady-friends  came,  in  very  elegant  private 
carriages,  to  see  her,  and  one  or  two  seemed  to  beg 
her  —  but  in  vain  —  to  go  away  with  them  ;  but  these 
gradually  dropped  off,  until  lady  and  servant  were 
alone  in  the  world.  And  so  years,  and  the  Mexican 
war,  went  by. 

The  volunteers  came  home ;  peace  reigned,  and  the 
city  went  on  spreading  up  and  down  the  land  ;  but 
'Sieur  George  did  not  return.  It  overran  the  coun- 
try like  cocoa-grass.  Fields,  roads,  woodlands,  that 
were  once  'Sieur  George's  places  of  retreat  from  man- 
kind, were  covered  all  over  with  little  one-story  houses 
in  the  "Old  Third,"  and  fine  residences  and  gardens 
up  in  "Lafayette."  Streets  went  slicing  like  a 
butcher's  knife,  through  old  colonial  estates,  whose 
first  masters  never  dreamed  of  the  city  reaching  them, 
—  and  'Sieur  George  was  still  away.     The  four-story 


254  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

brick  got  old  and  ugly,  and  the  surroundings  dim  and 
dreamy.  Theatres,  processions,  dry-goods  stores,  gov- 
ernment establishments,  banks,  hotels,  and  all  spirit 
of  enterprise  were  gone  to  Canal  Street  and  beyond, 
and  the  very  beggars  were  gone  with  them.  The 
little  trunk  got  very  old  and  bald,  and  still  its  owner 
lingered;  still  the  lady,  somewhat  the  worse  for  lapse 
of  time,  looked  from  the  balcony-window  in  the  brief 
southern  twilights,  and  the  maid  every  morning  shook 
a  worn  rug  or  two  over  the  dangerous-looking  railing ; 
and  yet  neither  had  made  friends  or  enemies. 

The  two  rooms,  from  having  been  stingily  kept  at 
first,  were  needing  repairs  half  the  time,  and  the  occu- 
pants were  often  moving,  now  into  one,  now  back 
into  the  other ;  yet  the  hair-trunk  was  seen  only  by 
glimpses,  the  landlord,  to  his  infinite  chagrin,  always 
being  a  little  too  late  in  offering  his  services,  the 
women,  whether  it  was  light  or  heavy,  having  already 
moved  it.     He  thought  it  significant. 

Late  one  day  of  a  most  bitter  winter,  —  that  season 
when,  to  the  ecstatic  amazement  of  a  whole  city-full  of 
children,  snow  covered  the  streets  ankle-deep,  — there 
came  a  soft  tap  on  the  corridor-door  of  this  pair  of 
rooms.  The  lady  opened  it,  and  beheld  a  tall,  lank, 
iron-gra}'  man,  a  total  stranger,  standing  behind  — 
Monsieur  George !  Both  men  were  weather-beaten, 
scarred,  and  tattered.  Across  'Sieur  George's  crown, 
leaving  a  long,  bare  streak  through  his  white  hair,  was 
the  souvenir  of  a  Mexican  sabre. 

The  landlord  had  accompanied  them  to  the  door :  it 
was  a  magnificent  opportunity.     Mademoiselle  asked 


'SIEUR   GEORGE.  255 

them  all  in,  and  tried  to  furnish  a  seat  to  each ;  but 
failing,  'Sieur  George  went  straight  across  the  room 
and  sat  on  the  hair-trunk.  The  action  was  so  conspic- 
uous, the  landlord  laid  it  up  in  his  penetrative  mind. 

'Sieur  George  was  quiet,  or,  as  it  appeared,  quieted. 
The  mulattress  stood  near  him,  and  to  her  he  addressed, 
in  an  undertone,  most  of  the  little  he  said,  leaving 
Mademoiselle  to  his  companion.  The  stranger  was  a 
warm  talker,  and  seemed  to  please  the  lady  from  the 
first ;  but  if  he  pleased,  nothing  else  did.  Kookoo, 
intensely  curious,  sought  some  pretext  for  staying,  but 
found  none.  They  were,  altogether,  an  uncongenial 
company.  The  lady  seemed  to  think  Kookoo  had  no 
business  there;  'Sieur  George  seemed  to  think  the 
same  concerning  his  companion  ;  and  the  few  words 
between  Mademoiselle  and  'Sieur  George  were  cool 
enough.  The  maid  appeared  nearly  satisfied,  but 
could  not  avoid  casting  an  anxious  eye  at  times  upon 
her  mistress.     Naturally  the  visit  was  short. 

The  next  day  but  one  the  two  gentlemen  came  again 
in  better  attire.  'Sieur  George  evidently  disliked  his 
companion,  yet  would  not  rid  himself  of  him.  The 
stranger  was  a  gesticulating,  stagy  fellow,  much  Mon- 
sieur's junior,  an  incessant  talker  in  Creole-French, 
always  excited  on  small  matters  and  unable  to  appre- 
ciate a  great  one.  Once,  as  they  were  leaving,  Koo- 
koo,—  accidents  will  happen,  —  was  under  the  stairs. 
As  they  began  to  descend  the  tall  man  was  speaking : 
" — better  to  bury  it,"  —  the  startled  landlord  heard 
him  say,  and  held  his  breath,  thinking  of  the  trunk ; 
but  no  more  was  uttered. 


256  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

A  week  later  they  came  again. 

A  week  later  they  came  again. 

A  week  later  they  came  yet  again  ! 

The  landlord's  eyes  began  to  open.  There  must  be 
a  courtship  in  progress.  It  was  very  plain  now  why 
'Sieur  George  had  wished  not  to  be  accompanied  by 
the  tall  gentleman  ;  but  since  his  visits  had  become 
regular  and  frequent,  it  was  equally  plain  why  he  did 
not  get  rid  of  him  ;  —  because  it  would  not  look  well 
to  be  going  and  coming  too  often  alone.  Maybe  it 
was  onby  this  tender  passion  that  the  tall  man  had 
thought  "better  to  bury."  Lately  there  often  came 
sounds  of  gay  conversation  from  the  first  of  the  two 
rooms,  which  had  been  turned  into  a  parlor ;  and  as, 
week  after  week,  the  friends  came  down-stairs,  the  tall 
man  was  always  in  high  spirits  and  anxious  to  embrace 
'Sieur  George,  who,  —  "sly  dog,"  thought  the  land- 
lord, —  would  try  to  look  grave,  and  only  smiled  in  an 
embarrassed  way.  "Ah!  Monsieur,  you  tink  to  be 
varry  conning  ;  mats  you  not  so  conning  as  Kookoo, 
no  ;  "  and  the  inquisitive  little  man  would  shake  his 
head  and  smile,  and  shake  his  head  again,  as  a  man 
has  a  perfect  right  to  do  under  the  conviction  that  be 
has  been  for  twenty  years  baffled  by  a  riddle  and  is 
learning  to  read  it  at  last ;  he  had  guessed  what  was 
in  'Sieur  George's  head,  he  would  by  and  by  guess 
what  was  in  the  trunk. 

A  few  months  passed  quickly  away,  and  it  became 
apparent  to  every  eye  in  or  about  the  ancient  mansion 
that  the  landlord's  guess  was  not  so  bad ;  in  fact,  that 
Mademoiselle  was  to  be  married. 


'SIEUR   GEORGE.  257 

On  a  certain  rainy  spring  afternoon,  a  single  hired 
hack  drove  up  to  the  main  entrance  of  the  old  house, 
and  after  some  little  bustle  and  the  gathering  of  a 
crowd  of  damp  children  about  the  big  doorway,  'Sieur 
George,  muffled  in  a  newly-repaired  overcoat,  jumped 
out  and  went  up-stairs.  A  moment  later  he  re-ap- 
peared, leading  Mademoiselle,  wreathed  and  veiled, 
down  the  stairway.  Very  fair  was  Mademoiselle  still. 
Her  beauty  was  mature,  —  fully  ripe,  —  maybe  a  little 
too  much  so,  but  only  a  little  ;  and  as  she  came  down 
with  the  ravishing  odor  of  bridal  flowers  floating  about 
her,  she  seemed  the  garlanded  victim  of  a  pagan  sacri- 
fice.    The  mulattress  in  holiday  gear  followed  behind. 

The  landlord  owed  a  duty  to  the  community.  He 
arrested  the  maid  on  the  last  step:  "  Your  mistress, 
she  goin'  pour  marier  'Sieur  George?  It  make  me 
glad,  glad,  glad  !  " 

"Marry  'Sieur  George?     Non,  Monsieur." 

"Non?  Not  marrie  'Sieur  George?  Mais  com- 
ment?" 

"  She's  going  to  marry  the  tall  gentleman." 

"DicMe!  ze  long  gentyman  !  " — With  his  hands 
upon  his  forehead,  he  watched  the  carriage  trundle 
away.  It  passed  out  of  sight  through  the  rain ;  he 
turned  to  enter  the  house,  and  all  at  once  tottered 
under  the  weight  of  a  tremendous  thought  —  they  had 
left  the  trunk  !  He  hurled  himself  up-stairs  as  he  had 
done  seven  years  before,  but  again —  "Ah,  bah!!" 
—  the  door  was  locked,  and  not  a  picayune  of  rent 
due. 

Late  that  night  a  small  square  man,  in  a  wet  over- 


258  OLD    CREOLE  BAYS. 

coat,  fumbled  his  way  into  the  damp  entrance  of  the 
house,  stumbled  up  the  cracking  stairs,  unlocked,  after 
many  lauguid  efforts,  the  door  of  the  two  rooms,  and 
falling  over  the  hair-trunk,  slept  until  the  morning 
sunbeams  climbed  over  the  balcony  and  in  at  the  win- 
dow, and  shone  full  on  the  back  of  his  head.  Old 
Kookoo,  passing  the  door  just  then,  was  surprised  to 
find  it  slightly  ajar  —  pushed  it  open  silently,  and  saw, 
within,  'Sieur  George  in  the  act  of  rising  from  his 
knees  beside  the  mysterious  trunk !  He  had  come 
back  to  be  once  more  the  tenant  of  the  two  rooms. 

'Sieur  George,  for  the  second  time,  was  a  changed 
man  —  changed  from  bad  to  worse  ;  from  being  retired 
and  reticent,  he  had  come,  by  reason  of  advancing 
years,  or  mayhap  that  which  had  left  the  terrible  scar 
on  his  face,  to  be  garrulous.  When,  once  in  a  while, 
employment  sought  him  (for  he  never  sought  employ- 
ment) ,  whatever  remuneration  he  received  went  its 
way  for  something  that  left  him  clingy  and  threadbare. 
He  now  made  a  lively  acquaintance  with  his  landlord, 
as,  indeed,  with  every  soul  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
told  all  his  adventures  in  Mexican  prisons  and  Cuban 
cities  ;  including  full  details  of  the  hardships  and  per- 
ils experienced  jointly  with  the  "long  gentleman" 
who  had  married  Mademoiselle,  and  who  was  no  Mexi- 
can or  Cuban,  but  a  genuine  Louisianian. 

"  It  was  he  that  fancied  me,"  he  said,  "  not  I  him  ; 
but  once  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  me  I  hadn't  the 
force  to  cast  him  off.  How  Madame  ever  should  have 
liked  him  was  one  of  those  woman's  freaks  that  a  man 
mustn't  expect  to  understand.     He  was  no  more  fit 


'SIEUR    GEORGE.  .  259 

for  her  than  rags  are  fit  for  a  queen  ;  and  I  could  have 
choked  his  head  off  the  night  he  hugged  me  round  the 
neck  and  told  me  what  a  suicide  she  had  committed. 
But  other  fine  women  are  committing  that  same  folly 
every  day,  only  they  don't  wait  until  they've  thirty- 
four  or  five  to  do  it.  — '  Why  don't  I  like  him?  '  Well, 
for  one  reason,  he's  a  drunkard!"  Here  Kookoo, 
whose  imperfect  knowledge  of  English  prevented  his 
intelligent  reception  of  the  story,  would  laugh  as  if 
the  joke  came  in  just  at  this  point. 

However,  with  all  Monsieur's  prattle,  he  never 
dropped  a  word  about  the  man  he  had  been  before  he 
went  away  ;  and  the  great  hair-trunk  puzzle  was  still 
the  same  puzzle,  growing  greater  every  clay. 

Thus  the  two  rooms  had  been  the  scene  of  some 
events  quite  queer,  if  not  really  strange  ;  but  the  queer- 
est that  ever  they  presented,  I  guess,  was  'Sieur  George 
coming  in  there  one  day,  ciying  like  a  little  child, 
and  bearing  in  his  arms  an  infant  —  a  girl  —  the  lovely 
offspring  of  the  drunkard  whom  he  so  detested,  and 
poor,  robbed,  spirit-broken  and  now  dead  Madame. 
He  took  good  care  of  the  orphan,  for  orphan  she  was 
very  soon.  The  long  gentleman  was  pulled  out  of  the 
Old  Basin  one  morning,  and  'Sieur  George  identified 
the  body  at  the  Tr6m6  station.  He  never  hired  a 
nurse  —  the  father  had  sold  the  lady's  maid  quite  out 
of  sight ;  so  he  brought  her  through  all  the  little  ills 
and  around  all  the  sharp  corners  of  baby-life  and  child- 
hood, without  a  human  hand  to  help  him,  until  one 
evening,  having  persistently  shut  his  eyes  to  it  for 
weeks  and  months,  like  one   trying   to   sleep   in   the 


2G0  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

sunshine,  he  awoke  to  the  realization  that  she  was  a 
woman.  It  was  a  smoky  one  in  November,  the  first 
cool  clay  of  autumn.  The  sunset  was  dimmed  by  the 
smoke  of  burning  prairies,  the  air  was  full  of  the  ashes 
of  grass  and  reeds,  ragged  urchins  were  lugging  home 
sticks  of  cordwood,  and  when  a  bit  of  coal  fell  from  a 
cart  in  front  of  Kookoo's  old  house,  a  child  was  boxed 
half  across  the  street  and  robbed  of  the  booty  by  a 
blanchisseuse  de  fin  from  over  the  way. 

The  old  man  came  home  quite  steady.  He  mounted 
the  stairs  smartly  without  stopping  to  rest,  went  with 
a  step  unusually  light  and  quiet  to  his  chamber  and  sat 
by  the  window  opening  upon  the  rusty  balcony. 

It  was  a  small  room,  sadly  changed  from  what  it 
had  been  in  old  times  ;  but  then  so  was  'Sieur  George. 
Close  and  dark  it  was,  the  walls  stained  with  damp- 
ness and  the  ceiling  full  of  bald  places  that  showed 
the  lathing.  The  furniture  was  cheap  and  meagre, 
including  conspicuously  the  small,  curious-looking  hair- 
trunk.  The  floor  was  of  wide  slabs  fastened  down 
with  spikes,  and  sloping  up  and  down  in  one  or  two 
broad  undulations,  as  if  they  had  drifted  far  enough 
down  the  current  of  time  to  feel  the  tide-swell. 

However,  the  floor  was  clean,  the  bed  well  made,  the 
C37press  table  in  place,  and  the  musty  smell  of  the  walls 
partly  neutralized  by  a  geranium  on  the  window-sill. 

He  so  coming  in  and  sitting  down,  an  unseen  per- 
son called  from  the  room  adjoining  (of  which,  also,  he 
was  still  the  rentee),  to  know  if  he  were  he,  and  beiug 
answered  in  the  affirmative,  said,  "Papa  George, 
guess  who  was  here  to-day  ?  ' ' 


'SIEUB   GEOBGE.  2G1 

"  Kookoo,  for  the  rent?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  will  not  come  back." 

"No?  why  not?" 

"  Because  yon  will  not  pay  him." 

' '  No  ?  and  why  not  ?  ' ' 

"  Because  I  have  paid  him." 

' '  Impossible  !  where  did  you  get  the  money  ?  ' ' 

"  Cannot  guess?  —  Mother  Nativity." 

"  What,  not  for  embroidery?" 

"  No?  and  why  not?  Mais  ouil  "  —  saying  which, 
and  with  a  pleasant  laugh,  the  speaker  entered  the 
room.  She  was  a  girl  of  sixteen  or  thereabout,  very 
beautiful,  with  very  black  hair  and  eyes.  A  face  and 
form  more  entirely  out  of  place  you  could  not  have 
found  in  the  whole  city.  She  sat  herself  at  his  feet, 
and,  with  her  interlocked  hands  upon  his  knee,  and 
her  face,  full  of  childish  innocence  mingled  with  wo- 
manly wisdom,  turned  to  his,  appeared  for  a  time  to 
take  principal  part  in  a  conversation  which,  of  course, 
could  not  be  overheard  in  the  corridor  outside. 

Whatever  was  said,  she  presently  rose,  he  opened 
his  arms,  and  she  sat  on  his  knee  and  kissed  him. 
This  done,  there  was  a  silence,  both  smiling  pensively 
and  gazing  out  over  the  rotten  balcony  into  the  street. 
After  a  while  she  started  up,  saying  something  about 
the  change  of  weather,  and,  slipping  away,  thrust  a 
match  between  the  bars  of  the  grate.  The  old  man 
turned  about  to  the  fire,  and  she  from  her  little  room 
brought  a  low  sewing-chair  and  sat  beside  him,  laying 
her  head  on  his  knee,  and  he  stroking  her  brow  with 
his  brown  palm. 


262  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

And  then,  in  an  altered  —  a  low,  sad  tone  —  he  be- 
gan a  monotonous  recital. 

Thus  they  sat,  he  talking  very  steadily  and  she  lis- 
tening, until  all  the  neighborhood  was  wrapped  in 
slumber,  — all  the  neighbors,  but  not  Kookoo. 

Kookoo  in  his  old  age  had  become  a  great  eaves- 
dropper ;  his  ear  and  eye  took  turns  at  the  keyhole 
that  night,  for  he  tells  things  that  were  not  intended 
for  outside  hearers.  He  heard  the  girl  sobbing,  and 
the  old  man  saying,  "But  you  must  go  now.  You 
cannot  stay  with  me  safely  or  decently,  much  as  I  wish 
it.  The  Lord  only  knows  how  I'm  to  bear  it,  or  where 
you're  to  go ;  but  He's  your  Lord,  child,  and  He'll 
make  a  place  for  you.  I  was  your  grandfather's  death  ; 
I  frittered  your  poor,  dead  mother's  fortune  away  : 
let  that  be  the  last  damage  I  do. 

"  I  have  always  meant  every  thing  for  the  best,"  he 
added  half  in  soliloquy. 

From  all  Kookoo  could  gather,  he  must  have  been 
telling  her  the  very  story  just  recounted.  She  had 
dropped  quite  to  the  floor,  hiding  her  face  in  hei 
hands,  and  was  saying  between  her  sobs,  "I  can- 
not go,  Papa  George ;  oh,  Papa  George,  I  cannot 
go!" 

Just  then  'Sieur  George,  having  kept  a  good  reso- 
lution all  day,  was  encouraged  by  the  orphan's  pitiful 
tones  to  contemplate  the  most  senseless  act  he  ever  at- 
tempted to  commit.  He  said  to  the  sobbing  girl  that 
she  was  not  of  his  blood  ;  that  she  was  nothing  to  him 
by  natural  ties  ;  that  his  covenant  was  with  her  grand- 
sire  to  care  for  his  offspring  ;  and  though  it  had  been 


'SIEUE   GEORGE.  263 

poorly  kept,  it  might  be  breaking  it  worse  than  ever 
to  turn  her  out  upon  ever  so  kind  a  world. 

"I  have  tried  to  be  good  to  you  all  these  years. 
When  I  took  you,  a  wee  little  baby,  I  took  you  for 
better  or  worse.  I  intended  to  do  well  by  }rou  all  your 
childhood-days,  and  to  do  best  at  last.  I  thought 
surely  we  should  be  living  well  by  this  time,  and  you 
could  choose  from  a  world  full  of  homes  aud  a  world 
full  of  friends. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  missed  it!"  Hers  he  paused 
a  moment  in  meditation,  and  presently  resumed  with 
some  suddenness : 

"I  thought  that  education,  far  better  than  Mother 
Nativity  has  given  you,  should  have  afforded  your 
sweet  charms  a  noble  setting ;  that  good  mothers  and 
sisters  would  be  wanting  to  count  you  into  their  fami- 
lies, and  that  the  blossom  of  a  happy  womanhood 
would  open  perfect  and  full  of  sweetness. 

"  I  would  have  given  my  life  for  it.  I  did  give  it, 
such  as  it  was  ;  but  it  was  a  very  poor  concern,  I 
know  —  my  life  —  and  not  enough  to  buy  any  good 
thing. 

"  I  have  had  a  thought  of  something,  but  I'm  afraid 
to  tell  it.  It  didn't  come  to  me  to-day  or  yesterday  ; 
it  has  beset  me  a  long  time  —  for  months." 

The  girl  gazed  into  the  embers,  listening  intensely. 

"And  oh!  dearie,  if  I  could  only  get  you  to  think 
the  same  way,  you  might  stay  with  me  then." 

"How  long?"  she  asked,  without  stirring. 

"  Oh,  as  long  as  heaven  should  let  us.  But  there  is 
only  one  chance,"  he  said,  as  it  were  feeling  his  way, 


264  OLD   CREOLE   DAYS. 

"  only  one  way  for  us  to  stay  together.  Do  you  un- 
derstand me  ? ' ' 

She  looked  up  at  the  old  man  with  a  glance  of 
painful  inquiry. 

"  If  you  could  be  —  my  wife,  dearie?  " 

She  uttered  a  low,  distressful  cry,  and,  gliding 
swiftly  into  her  room,  for  the  first  time  in  her  young 
life  turned  the  key  between  them. 

And  the  old  man  sat  and  wept. 

Then  Kookoo,  peering  through  the  keyhole,  saw 
that  they  had  been  looking  into  the  little  trunk.  The 
lid  was  up,  but  the  back  was  toward  the  door,  and  he 
could  see  no  more  than  if  it  had  been  closed. 

He  stooped  and  stared  into  the  aperture  until  his 
dry  old  knees  were  ready  to  crack.  It  seemed  as  if 
'Sieur  George  was  stone,  only  stone  couldn't  weep  like 
that. 

Every  separate  bone  in  his  neck  was  hot  with  pain. 
He  would  have  given  ten  dollars  —  ten  sweet  dollars  ! 
—  to  have  seen  'Sieur  George  get  up  and  turn  that 
trunk  around. 

There!  'Sieur  George  rose  up  —  what  a  face! 

He  started  toward  the  bed,  and  as  he  came  to  the 
trunk  he  paused,  looked  at  it,  muttered  something  about 
"ruin,"  and  something  about  "fortune,"  kicked  the 
lid  down  and  threw  himself  across  the  bed. 

Small  profit  to  old  Kookoo  that  he  went  to  his  own 
couch ;  sleep  was  not  for  the  little  landlord.  For 
well-nigh  half  a  century  he  had  suspected  his  tenant 
of  having  a  treasure  hidden  in  his  house,  and  to-night 
he  had  heard  his  own  admission  that  in  the  little  trunk 


'SIEUR   GEORGE.  265 

was  a  fortune.  Kookoo  had  never  felt  so  poor  in  all 
his  days  before.  He  felt  a  Creole's  anger,  too,  that  a 
tenant  should  be  the  holder  of  wealth  while  his  land- 
lord suffered  poverty. 

And  he  knew  very  well,  too,  did  Kookoo,  what  the 
tenant  would  do.  If  he  did  not  know  what  he  kept  in 
the  trunk,  he  knew  what  he  kept  behind  it,  and  he 
knew  he  would  take  enough  of  it  to-night  to  make  him 
sleep  soundly. 

No  one  would  ever  have  supposed  Kookoo  capable 
of  a  crime.  He  was  too  fearfully  impressed  with  the 
extra-hazardous  risks  of  dishonesty  ;  he  was  old,  too, 
and  weak,  and,  besides  all,  inteusely  a  coward.  Nev- 
ertheless, while  it  was  yet  two  or  three  hours  before 
daybreak,  the  sleep-forsaken  little  man  arose,  shuf- 
fled into  his  garments,  and  in  his  stocking-feet  sought 
the  corridor  leading  to  'Sieur  George's  apartment. 
The  November  night,  as  it  often  does  in  that  region, 
had  grown  warm  and  clear ;  the  stars  were  sparkling 
like  diamonds  pendent  in  the  deep  blue  heavens,  and 
at  every  window  and  lattice  and  cranny  the  broad, 
bright  moon  poured  down  its  glittering  beams  upon 
the  hoaiy-headed  thief,  as  he  crept  along  the  moulder- 
ing galleries  and  down  the  ancient  corridor  that  led  to 
'Sieur  George's  chamber. 

'Sieur  George's  door,  though  ever  so  slowly  opened, 
protested  with  a  loud  creak.  The  landlord,  wet  with 
cold  sweat  from  head  to  foot,  and  shaking  till  thu 
floor  trembled,  paused  for  several  minutes,  and  then 
entered  the  moon-lit  apartment.  The  tenant,  lying  as 
if  he  had  not  moved,  was  sleeping  heavily.     And  now 


266  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

the  poor  coward  trembled  so,  that  to  kneel  before  the 
trunk,  without  falling,  he  did  not  know  how.  Twice, 
thrice,  he  was  near  tumbling  headlong.  He  became  as 
cold  as  ice.  But  the  sleeper  stirred,  and  the  thought 
of  losing  his  opportunity  strung  his  nerves  up  in  an 
instant.  He  went  softly  down  upon  his  knees,  laid 
his  hands  upon  the  lid,  lifted  it,  and  let  in  the  intense 
moonlight.  The  trunk  was  full,  full,  crowded  down 
and  running  over  full,  of  the  tickets  of  the  Havana 
Lottery  ! 

A  little  after  daybreak,  Kookoo  from  his  window 
saw  the  orphan,  pausing  on  the  corner.  She  stood  for 
a  moment,  and  then  dove  into  the  dense  fog  which  had 
floated  in  from  the  river,  and  disappeared.  He  never 
saw  her  again. 

But  her  Lord  is  taking  care  of  her.  Once  only  she 
has  seen  'Sieur  George.  She  had  been  in  the  belve- 
dere of  the  house  which  she  now  calls  home,  looking 
down  upon  the  outspread  city.  Far  away  southward" 
and  westward  the  great  river  glistened  in  the  sunset. 
Along  its  sweeping  bends  the  chimneys  of  a  smoking 
commerce,  the  magazines  of  surplus  wealth,  the  gar- 
dens of  the  opulent,  the  steeples  of  a  hundred  sanc- 
tuaries and  thousands  on  thousands  of  mansions  and 
hovels  covered  the  fertile  birthright  arpents  which 
'Sieur  George,  in  his  fifty  years'  stay,  had  seen  tricked 
away  from  dull  colonial  Esaus  by  their  blue-eyed 
brethren  of  the  North.  Nearer  by  she  looked  upon 
the  forlornly  silent  region  of  lowly  dwellings,  neglected 
by  legislation  and  shunned  by  all  lovers  of  comfort, 
that  once  had  been  the  smiling  fields  of  her  own  grand- 


'SIEUR   GEORGE.  267 

sire's  broad  plantation  ;  and  but  a  little  way  off,  trudg- 
ing across  the  marshy  commons,  her  eye  caught  sight 
of  'Sieur  George  following  the  sunset  out  upon  the 
prairies  to  find  a  night's  rest  in  the  high  grass. 

She  turned  at  once,  gathered  the  skirt  of  her  pink 
calico  uniform,  and,  watching  her  steps  through  her 
tears,  descended  the  steep  winding-stair  to  her  fre- 
quent kneeling-place  under  the  fragrant  candles  of  the 
chapel-altar  in  Mother  Nativity's  asylum. 

'Sieur  George  is  houseless.  He  cannot  find  the  or- 
phan. Mother  Nativity  seems  to  know  nothing  of 
her.  If  he  could  find  her  now,  and  could  get  from  her 
the  use  of  ten  dollars  for  but  three  days,  he  knows  a 
combination  which  would  repair  all  the  past ;  it  could 
not  fail,. he  —  thinks.  But  he  cannot  find  her,  and 
the  letters  he  writes  —  all  containing  the  one  scheme 
—  disappear  in  the  mail-box,  and  there's  an  end. 


Madame   Delicieuse. 


MADAME   DELICIEUSE. 


Just  adjoining  the  old  Cafe1  de  Po6sie  on  the  corner, 
stood  the  little  one-story,  yellow-washed  tenement  of 
Dr.  Mossy,  with  its  two  glass  doors  protected  by  bat- 
ten shutters,  and  its  low,  weed-grown  tile  roof  sloping 
out  over  the  sidewalk.  You  were  very  likeby  to  find 
the  Doctor  in,  for  he  was  a  great  student  and  rather 
negligent  of  his  business  —  as  business.  He  was  a 
small,  sedate,  Creole  gentleman  of  thirty  or  more,  with 
a  young-old  face  and  manner  that  provoked  instant 
admiration.  He  would  receive  you  —  be  you  who  you 
may  —  in  a  mild,  candid  manner,  looking  into  your 
face  with  his  deep  blue  eyes,  and  re-assuring  you  with 
a  modest,  amiable  smile,  very  sweet  and  rare  on  a 
man's  mouth. 

To  be  frank,  the  Doctor's  little  establishment  was 
dusty  and  disorderly  —  very.  It  was  curious,  to  see 
the  jars,  and  jars,  and  jars.  In  them  were  serpents 
and  hideous  fishes  and  precious  specimens  of  many 
sorts.  There  were  stuffed  birds  on  broken  perches  ; 
and  dried  lizards,  and  eels,  and  little  alligators,  and 
old  skulls  with  their  crowns  sawed  off,  and  ten  thou- 
sand odd  scraps  of  writing-paper  strewn  with  crumbs 

271 


272  OLD   CBEOLE  BAYS. 

of  lonely  lunches,  and  interspersed  with  long-lost  spat- 
ulas and  rust-eaten  lancets. 

All  New  Orleans,  at  least  all  Creole  New  Orleans, 
knew,  and  yet  did  not  know,  the  dear  little  Doctor. 
So  gentle,  so  kind,  so  skilful,  so  patient,  so  lenient ; 
so  careless  of  the  rich  and  so  attentive  to  the  poor ;  a 
man,  all  in  all,  such  as,  should  you  once  love  him,  you 
would  love  him  forever.  So  very  learned,  too,  but 
with  apparently  no  idea  of  how  to  show  himself  to  his 
social  profit,  — two  features  much  more  smiled  at  than 
respected,  not  to  say  admired,  by  a  people  remote 
from  the  seats  of  learning,  and  spending  most  of  their 
esteem  upon  animal  heroisms  and  exterior  display. 

"  Alas  !  "  said  his  wealthy  acquaintances,  "  what  a 
pity ;  when  he  might  as  well  be  rich." 

"Yes,  his  father  has  plenty." 

"Certainly,  and  gives  it  freely.  But  intends  his 
son  shall  see  none  of  it." 

' '  His  son  ?  You  dare  not  so  much  as  mention 
him." 

"Well,  well,  how  strange!  But  they  can  never 
agree  —  not  even  upon  their  name.  Is  not  that  droll  ? 
—  a  man  named  General  Villivicencio,  and  his  son, 
Dr.  Mossy!" 

"Oh,  that  is  nothing;  it  is  only  that  the  Doctor 
drops  the  de  Villivicencio. " 

' '  Drops  the  de  Villivicencio  ?  but  I  think  the  cle 
Villivicencio  drops  him,  ho,  ho,  ho,  —  diable!  " 

Next  to  the  residence  of  good  Dr.  Mossy  towered 
the  narrow,  red-brick-front  mansion  of  3Toung  Madame 
Dclicieuse,  firm  friend  at  once  and  always  of  those  two 


MADAME  DELICIEUSE.  273 

antipodes,  General  Villivicencio  and  Dr.  Mossy.  Its 
dark,  covered  carriage-way  was  ever  rumbling,  and, 
with  nightfall,  its  drawing-rooms  always  sent  forth  a 
luxurious  light  from  the  lace-curtained  windows  of  the 
second-story  balconies. 

It  was  one  of  the  sights  of  the  Eue  Royale  to  see 
by  night  its  tall,  narrow  outline  reaching  high  up  to- 
ward the  stars,  with  all  its  windows  aglow. 

The  Madame  had  had  some  tastes  of  human  expe- 
rience ;  had  been  betrothed  at  sixteen  (to  a  man  she 
did  not  love,  "being  at  that  time  a  fool,"  as  she 
said)  ;  one  summer  day  at  noon  had  been  a  bride,  and 
at  sundown  —  a  widow.  Accidental  discharge  of  the 
tipsy  bridegroom's  own  pistol.  Pass  it  by !  It  left 
but  one  lasting  effect  on  her,  a  special  detestation  of 
quarrels  and  weapons. 

The  little  maidens  whom  poor  parentage  has  doomed 
to  sit  upon  street  door-sills  and  nurse  their  infant 
brothers  have  a  game  of  "choosing"  the  beautiful 
ladies  who  sweep  by  along  the  pavement ;  but  in  Rue 
Royale  there  was  no  choosing ;  every  little  damsel 
must  own  Madame  Delicieuse  or  nobody,  and  as  that 
richly  adorned  and  regal  favorite  of  old  General  Villi- 
vicencio came  along  they  would  lift  their  big,  bold 
eyes  away  up  to  her  face  and  pour  forth  their  admira- 
tion in  a  universal  — ' '  Ah-h-h-h  ! ' ' 

But,  mark  you,  she  was  good  Madame  Delicieuse  as 
well  as  fair  Madame  Delicieuse :  her  principles,  how- 
ever, not  constructed  in  the  austere  Anglo-Saxon  style, 
exactly  (what  need,  with  the  lattice  of  the  Confes- 
sional not  a  stone's-throw  off?).     Her  kind  offices  and 


274  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

beneficent  schemes  were  almost  as  famous  as  General 
Villivicencio's  splendid  alms  ;  if  she  could  at  times  do 
what  the  infantile  Washington  said  he  could  not,  why, 
no  doubt  she  and  her  friends  generally  looked  upon  it 
as  a  mere  question  of  enterprise. 

She  had  charms,  too,  of  intellect  —  albeit  not  such 
a  sinner  against  time  and  place  as  to  be  an  "  educated 
woman"  —  charms  that,  even  in  a  plainer  person, 
would  have  brought  down  the  half  of  New  Orleans 
upon  one  knee,  with  both  hands  on  the  left  side.  She 
had  the  whole  city  at  her  feet,  and,  with  the  fine  tact 
which  was  the  perfection  of  her  character,  kept  it  there 
contented.  Madame  was,  in  short,  one  of  the  kind  that 
gracefully  wrest  from  society  the  prerogative  of  doing 
as  they  please,  and  had  gone  even  to  such  extravagant 
lengths  as  driving  out  in  the  Americain  faubourg, 
learning  the  English  tongue,  talking  national  politics, 
and  similar  freaks  whereby  she  provoked  the  un- 
bounded worship  of  her  less  audacious  lady  friends. 
In  the  centre  of  the  cluster  of  Creole  beauties  which 
everywhere  gathered  about  her,  and,  most  of  all,  in 
those  incomparable  companies  which  assembled  in  her 
own  splendid  drawing-rooms,  she  was  alwa}7s  queen 
lily.  Her  house,  her  drawing-rooms,  etc. ;  for  the 
little  brown  aunt  who  lived  with  her  was  a  mere  piece 
of  curious  furniture. 

There  was  this  notable  charm  about  Madame  Deli- 
cieuse,  she  improved  by  comparison.  She  never  looked 
so  grand  as  when,  hanging  on  General  Villivicencio's 
arm  at  some  gorgeous  ball,  these  two  bore  down  on 
you  like  a  royal  barge   lashed  to   a  ship-of-the-line. 


MADAME  DELICIEUSE.  275 

She  never  looked  so  like  her  sweet  name,  as  when  she 
seated  her  prettiest  lady  adorers  close  around  her,  and 
got  thern  all  a-laughing. 

Of  the  two  balconies  which  overhung  the  banquette 
on  the  front  of  the  Delicieuse  house,  one  was  a  small 
affair,  and  the  other  a  deeper  and  broader  one,  from 
which  Madame  and  her  ladies  were  wont  upon  gala 
days  to  wave  handkerchiefs  and  cast  flowers  to  the 
friends  in  the  processions.  There  they  gathered  one 
Eighth  of  January  morning  to  see  the  military  display. 
It  was  a  bright  blue  day,  and  the  group  that  quite 
filled  the  balcony  had  laid  wrappings  aside,  as  all 
flower-buds  are  apt  to  do  on  such  Creole  January  days, 
and  shone  resplendent  in  spring  attire. 

The  sight-seers  passing  below  looked  up  by  hundreds 
and  smiled  at  the  ladies'  eager  twitter,  as,  flirting  in 
humming-bird  fashion  from  one  subject  to  another, 
they  laughed  away  the  half-hours  waiting  for  the 
pageant.  By  and  by  they  fell  a-listening,  for  Madame 
Delicieuse  had  begun  a  narrative  concerning  Dr. 
Mossy.  She  sat  somewhat  above  her  listeners,  her 
elbow  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  her  plump  white 
hand  waving  now  and  then  in  graceful  gesture,  they 
silently  attending  with  eyes  full  of  laughter  and  lips 
starting  apart. 

"  Vous  savez,"  she  said  (they  conversed  in  French 
of  course),  "  you  know  it  is  now  long  that  Dr.  Mossy 
and  his  father  have  been  in  disaccord.  Indeed,  when 
have  they  not  differed  ?  For,  when  Mossy  was  but  a 
little  boy,  his  father  thought  it  hard  that  he  was  not 
a  rowdy.     He  switched  him  once  because  he  would  not 


276  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

play  with  his  toy  gun  and  drum.  He  was  not  so  high 
when  his  father  wished  to  send  him  to  Paris  to  enter 
the  French  army  ;  but  he  would  not  go.  We  used  to 
play  often  together  on  the  banquette  —  for  I  am  not 
so  very  many  years  younger  than  he,  no  indeed  —  and, 
if  I  wanted  some  fun,  I  had  only  to  pull  his  hair  and 
run  into  the  house  ;  he  would  cry,  and  monsieur  j.apa 
would  come  out  with  his  hand  spread  open  and  "  — 

Madame  gave  her  hand  a  malicious  little  sweep,  and 
joined  heartily  in  the  laugh  which  followed. 

"That  was  when  they  lived  over  the  way.  But 
wait !  you  shall  see  ;  I  have  something.  This  evening 
the  General ' '  — 

The  houses  of  Rue  Royale  gave  a  start  and  rattled 
their  windows.  In  the  long,  irregular  line  of  balconies 
the  beauty  of  the  city  rose  up.  Then  the  houses 
jumped  again  and  the  windows  rattled  ;  Madame  steps 
inside  the  window  and  gives  a  message  which  the 
housemaid  smiles  at  in  receiving.  As  she  turns  the 
houses  shake  again,  and  now  again ;  and  now  there 
comes  a  distant  strain  of  trumpets,  and  by  and  by 
the  drums  and  bayonets  and  clattering  hoofs,  and 
plumes  and  dancing  banners  ;  far  down  the  long  street 
stretch  out  the  shining  ranks  of  gallant  men,  and  the 
fluttering,  over-leaning  swarms  of  ladies  shower  down 
their  sweet  favors  and  wave  their  countless  welcomes. 

In  the  front,  towering  above  his  captains,  rides  Gen- 
eral Villivicencio,  veteran  of  1814-15,  and,  with  the 
gracious  pomp  of  the  old-time  gentleman,  lifts  his 
cocked  hat,  and  bows,  and  bows. 

Madame  Delicieuse's  balcony  was  a  perfect  maze  of 


MADAME  DfiLICIEUSE.  277 

waving  kerchiefs.  The  General  looked  up  for  the 
woman  of  all  women  ;  she  was  not  there.  But  he  re- 
membered the  other  balcony,  the  smaller  one,  and 
cast  his  glance  onward  to  it.  There  he  saw  Madame 
and  one  other  person  only.  A  small  blue-eyed,  broad- 
browed,  scholarly-looking  man  whom  the  arch  lady  had 
lured  from  his  pen  by  means  of  a  mock  professional 
summons,  and  who  now  stood  beside  her,  a  smile  of 
pleasure  playing  on  his  lips  and  about  his  eyes. 

"  Vite!  "  said  Madame,  as  the  father's  eyes  met  the 
son's.  Dr.  Mossy  lifted  his  arm  and  cast  a  bouquet 
of  roses.  A  girl  in  the  crowd  bounded  forward, 
caught  it  in  the  air,  and,  blushing,  handed  it  to  the 
plumed  giant.  He  bowed  low,  first  to  the  girl,  then  to 
the  balcony  above  ;  and  then,  with  a  responsive  smile, 
tossed  up  two  splendid  kisses,  one  to  Madame,  and 
one,  it  seemed  — 

' '  For  what  was  that  cheer  ? ' ' 

"  Why,  did  you  not  see?  General  Villivicencio  cast 
a  kiss  to  his  son." 

The  staff  of  General  Villivicencio  were  a  faithful  few 
who  had  not  bowed  the  knee  to  any  abomination  of  the 
Americains,  nor  sworn  deceitfully  to  any  species  of 
compromise  ;  their  beloved  city  was  presently  to  pass 
into  the  throes  of  an  election,  and  this  band,  heroically 
unconscious  of  their  feebleness,  putting  their  trust  in 
"re-actions"  and  like  delusions,  resolved  to  make  one 
more  stand  for  the  traditions  of  their  fathers.  It  was 
concerning  this  that  Madame  Delicieuse  was  incident- 
ally about  to  speak  when  interrupted  'by  the  boom  of 


278  OLD  CREOLE  DATS. 

cannon  ;  they  had  promised  to  meet  at  her  house  that 
evening. 

They  met.  "With  very  little  discussion  or  delay  (for 
their  minds  were  made  up  beforehand) ,  it  was  decided 
to  announce  in  the  French-English  newspaper  that,  at 
a  meeting  of  leading  citizens,  it  had  been  thought 
consonant  with  the  public  interest  to  place  before  the 
people  the  name  of  General  Hercule  Mossy  de  Villivi- 
cencio.  No  explanation  was  considered  necessary. 
All  had  been  done  in  strict  accordance  with  time-hon- 
ored customs,  and  if  any  one  did  not  know  it  it  was 
his  own  fault.  No  eulogium  was  to  follow,  no  edito- 
rial indorsement.  The  two  announcements  were  des- 
tined to  stand  next  morning,  one  on  the  English  side 
and  one  on  the  French,  in  severe  simplicit}T,  to  be 
greeted  with  profound  gratification  by  a  few  old  gen- 
tlemen in  blue  cottonade,  and  by  roars  of  laughter 
from  a  rampant  majority. 

As  the  junto  were  departing,  sparkling  Madame 
Delicieuse  detained  the  General  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  that  descended  into  the  tiled  carriage-way,  to 
wish  she  was  a  man,  that  she  might  vote  for  him. 

"But,  General,"  she  said,  "had  I  not  a  beautiful 
bouquet  of  ladies  on  my  balcony  this  morning?  " 

The  General  replied,  with  majestic  gallantry,  that 
"  it  was  as  magnificent  as  could  be  expected  with  the 
central  rose  wanting."  And  so  Madame  was  disap- 
pointed, for  she  was  trying  to  force  the  General  to 
mention  his  son.  "I  will  bear  this  no  longer;  he 
shall  not  rest,"  she  had  said  to  her  little  aunt,  "  until 
he  has  either  kissed  his  son  or  quarrelled  with  him." 


MADAME  DE~LICIEUSE. 


279 


To  which  the  aunt  had  answered  that,  "  coute  que 
coute,  she  need  not  cry  about  it;"  nor  did  she. 
Though  the  General's  compliment  had  foiled  her 
thrust,  she  answered  gayly  to  the  effect  that  enough 
was  enough  ;  "  but,  ah  !  General,"  dropping  her  voice 
to  an  undertone,  "if  you  had  heard  what  some  of 
those  rosebuds  said  of  you  !  " 

The  old  General  pricked  up  like  a  country  beau. 
Madame  laughed  to  herself,  "Monsieur  Peacock,  I 
have  thee  ;  "  but  aloud  she  said  gravely  : 

"  Come  into  the  drawing-room,  if  you  please,  and 
seat  yourself.     You  must  be  greatly  fatigued." 

The  friends  who  waited  below  overheard  the  invita- 
tion. 

"  Au  revoir,  General,"  said  they. 

"  Au  revoir,  Messieurs,"  he  answered,  and  followed 
the  lady. 

"  General,"  said  she,  as  if  her  heart  were  overflowing, 
"  you  have  been  spoken  against.     Please  sit  down." 

"  Is  that  true,  Madame?  " 

"Yes,  General." 

She  sank  into  a  luxurious  chair. 

' '  A  lady  said  to-day  —  but  you  will  be  angry  with 
me,  General." 

"  With  you,  Madame?     That  is  not  possible." 

"I  do  not  love  to  make  revelations,  General;  but 
when  a  noble  friend  is  evil  spoken  of"  —  she  leaned 
her  brow  upon  her  thumb  and  forefinger,  and  looked 
pensively  at  her  slipper's  toe  peeping  out  at  the  edge 
of  her  skirt  on  the  rich  carpet  —  "one's  heart  gets  very 
big." 


280  OLD  CREOLE  DAYS. 

"Madame,  you  are  an  angel!  But  what  said  she, 
Madame  ?  ' ' 

"  Well,  General,  I  have  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth, 
if  you  will  not  be  angry.  We  were  all  speaking  at 
once  of  handsome  men.  She  said  to  me :  '  Well, 
Madame  Delicieuse,  you  may  say  what  you  will  of 
General  Villi vicencio,  and  I  suppose  it  is  true  ;  but 
everybody  knows'  —  pardon  me,  General,  but  just  so 
she  said  — '  all  the  world  knows  he  treats  his  son  very 
badly.'  " 

"  It  is  not  true,"  said  the  General. 

"If  I  wasn't  angry!"  said  Madame,  making  a 
pretty  fist.  '  How  can  that  be?  '  I  said.  '  Well,'  she 
said,  '  mamma  says  he  has  been  angry  with  his  son  for 
fifteen  years.'  'But  what  did  his  son  do?'  I  said. 
'Nothing,'  said  she.  ' Ma  foi,'  I  said,  'me,  I  too 
would  be  angry  if  my  son  had  done  nothing  for  fifteen 
years'  — ho,  ho,  ho  !  " 

"  It  is  not  true,"  said  the  General. 

The  old  General  cleared  his  throat,  and  smiled  as 
by  compulsion. 

"You  know,  General,"  said  Madame,  looking  dis- 
tressed, "it  was  nothing  to  joke  about,  but  I  had  to 
say  so,  because  I  did  not  know  what  your  son  had 
done,  nor  did  I  wish  to  hear  any  thing  against  one 
who  has  the  honor  to  call  you  his  father." 

She  paused  a  moment  to  let  the  flattery  take  effect, 
and  then  proceeded : 

"  But  then  another  lady  said  to  me  ;  she  said,  '  For 
shame,  Clarisse,  to  laugh  at  good  Dr.  Mossy ;  nobody 
—  neither  General  Villiviccncio,  neither  any  other,  has 


MADAME  DELLCIEUSE.  281 

a  right  to  be  angry  against  that  noble,  gentle,  kind, 
brave '  "  — 

"  Brave  !  "  said  the  General,  with  a  touch  of  irony. 

"  So  she  said,"  answered  Madame  Delicieuse,  "  and 
I  asked  her,  '  how  brave  ?  '  '  Brave  ?  '  she  said,  '  why, 
braver  than  any  soldier,  in  tending  the  small-pox,  the 
cholera,  the  fevers,  and  all  those  horrible  things.  Me, 
I  saw  his  father  once  run  from  a  snake  ;  I  think  he 
wouldn't  fight  the  small-pox  —  my  faith!'  she  said, 
'  they  say  that  Dr.  Mossy  does  all  that  and  never 
wears  a  scapula !  —  and  does  it  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  times  in  a  thousand  for  nothing  !  Is  that 
brave,  Madame  Delicieuse,  or  is  it  not? '  — And,  Gen- 
eral, —  what  could  I  say  ?  " 

Madame  dropped  her  palms  on  either  side  of  her 
spreading  robes  and  waited  pleadingly  for  an  answer. 
There  was  no  sound  but  the  drumming  of  the  Gen- 
eral's fingers  on  his  sword-hilt.     Madame  resumed  : 

"  I  said,  '  I  do  not  deny  that  Mossy  is  a  noble  gen- 
tleman ; '  —  I  had  to  say  that,  had  I  not,  General?  " 

"Certainly,  Madame,"  said  the  General,  "my  son 
is  a  gentleman,  yes." 

"  'But,'  I  said,  'he  should  not  make  Monsieur,  his 
father,  angry.'  " 

"  True,"  said  the  General,  eagerly. 

"But  that  lady  said:  'Monsieur,  his  father,  makes 
himself  angry,'  she  said.  'Do  you  know,  Madame, 
why  his  father  is  angry  so  long?  '  Another  lady  says, 
'  I  know  ! '  '  For  what  ? '  said  I.  '  Because  he  refused 
to  become  a  soldier  ;  mamma  told  me  that. '  '  It  can- 
not be  !  '  I  said." 


282  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

The  General  flushed.  Madame  saw  it,  but  relent- 
lessly continued  : 

" '  Mais  oui,'  said  that  lady.  'What!'  I  said, 
'  think  you  General  Villivicencio  will  not  rather  be  the 
very  man  most  certain  to  respect  a  son  who  has  the 
courage  to  be  his  own  master?  Oh,  what  does  lie 
want  with  a  poor  fool  of  a  son  who  will  do  only  as  he 
says?  You  think  he  will  love  him  less  for  healing 
instead  of  killing?  Mesdemoiselles,  you  do  not  know 
that  noble  soldier  ! '  " 

The  noble  soldier  glowed,  and  bowed  his  acknowl- 
edgments in  a  dubious,  half  remonstrative  way,  as  if 
Madame  might  be  producing  material  for  her  next 
confession,  as,  indeed,  she  diligently  was  doing ;  but 
she  went  straight  on  once  more,  as  a  surgeon  would. 

"  But  that  other  lady  said  :  '  No  Madame,  no,  ladies  ; 
but  I  am  going  to  tell  you  why  Monsieur,  the  General, 
is  angry  with  his  son.'  '  Very  well,  why?  '  —  '  Why? 
It  is  just  —  because  —  he  is  —  a  little  man  ! '  " 

General  Villivicencio  stood  straight  up. 

"Ah!  mon  ami,"  cried  the  lady,  rising  excitedly, 
"  I  have  wounded  you  and  made  you  angry,  with  my 
silly  revelations.  Pardon  me,  my  friend.  Those  were 
foolish  girls,  and,  anyhow,  they  admired  you.  They 
said  you  looked  glorious  —  grand  —  at  the  head  of  the 
procession." 

Now,  all  at  once,  the  General  felt  the  tremendous 
fatigues  of  the  day ;  there  was  a  wild,  swimming, 
whirling  sensation  in  his  head  that  forced  him  to  let 
his  eyelids  sink  down ;  yet,  just  there,  in  the  midst 
of  his  painful  bewilderment,  he  realized  with  ecstatic 


MADAME  DfiLICIEUSE.  283 

complacency  that  the  most  martial-looking  man  in 
Louisiana  was  standing  in  his  spurs  with  the  hand  of 
Louisiana's  queenliest  woman  laid  tenderly  on  his 
arm. 

"  I  am  a  wretched  tattler!  "  said  she. 

"  Ah  !  no,  Madame,  you  are  my  dearest  friend,  yes.' 

"Well,  anyhow,  I  called  them  fools.  'Ah!  inno- 
cent creatures,'  I  said,  '  think  you  a  man  of  his  sense 
and  goodness,  giving  his  thousands  to  the  sick  and 
afflicted,  will  cease  to  love  his  only  son  because  he  is 
not  big  like  a  horse  or  quarrelsome  like  a  dog?  No, 
ladies,  there  is  a  great  reason  which  none  of  you 
know.'  '  Well,  well,'  they  cried,  '  tell  it ;  he  has  need 
of  a  very  good  reason;  tell  it  now.'  'My  ladies,'  I 
said,  '  I  must  not '  —  for,  General,  for  all  the  world 
I  knew  not  a  reason  why  you  should  be  angry  against 
your  son ;  you  know,  General,  you  have  never  told 
me." 

The  beauty  again  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and 
gazed,  with  round-eyed  simplicity,  into  his  sombre 
countenance.  For  an  instant  her  witchery  had  almost 
conquered. 

"  Nay,  Madame,  some  day  I  shall  tell  you  ;  I  have 
more  than  one  burden  here.  But  let  me  ask  you  to  be 
seated,  for  I  have  a  question,  also,  for  you,  which  I 
have  longed  to  ask.  It  lies  heavily  upon  my  heart ;  I 
must  ask  it  now.  A  matter  of  so  great  importance  "  — 

Madame 's  little  brown  aunt  gave  a  faint  cough  from 
a  dim  corner  of  the  room. 

"  'Tis  a  beautiful  night,"  she  remarked,  and  stepped 
out  on  the  balcony. 


284  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

Then  the  General  asked  his  question.  It  was  a  very 
long  question,  or,  maybe,  repeated  twice  or  thrice  ;  for 
it  was  fully  ten  minutes  before  he  moved  out  of  the 
room,  saying  good-evening. 

Ah !  old  General  Villivicencio.  The  most  martial- 
looking  man  in  Louisiana  !  But  what  would  the  peo- 
ple, the  people  who  cheered  in  the  morning,  have  said, 
to  see  the  fair  Queen  D61icieuse  at  the  top  of  the  stair, 
sweetly  bowing  you  down  into  the  starlight,  —  hum- 
bled, crestfallen,  rejected ! 

The  campaign  opened.  The  Villivicencio  ticket 
was  read  in  French  and  English  with  the  very  differ- 
ent sentiments  already  noted.  In  the  Exchange, 
about  the  courts,  among  the  "  banks,"  there  was 
lively  talkiug  concerning  its  intrinsic  excellence  and 
extrinsic  chances.  The  young  gentlemen  who  stood 
about  the  doors  of  the  so-called  "coffee-houses" 
talked  with  a  frantic  energy  alarming  to  any  stranger, 
and  just  when  you  would  have  expected  to  see  them 
jump  and  bite  large  mouthfuls  out  of  each  other's 
face,  they  would  turn  and  enter  the  door,  talking  on 
in  the  same  furious  manner,  and,  walking  up  to  the 
bar,  click  their  glasses  to  the  success  of  the  Villivi- 
cencio ticket.  Sundiy  swarthy  and  wrinkled  remnants 
of  an  earlier  generation  were  still  more  enthusiastic. 
There  was  to  be  a  happy  renaissance  ;  a  purging  out 
of  Yankee  ideas  ;  a  blessed  home-coming  of  those  good 
old  Bourbon  morals  and  manners  which  Yankee  no- 
tions had  expatriated.  In  the  cheerfulness  of  their 
anticipations  they  even  went  the  length  of   throwing 


MADAME  Dj^LICIEUSE.  285 

their  feet  high  in  air,  thus  indicating  how  the  Villivi- 
cencio  ticket  was  going  to  give  "doze  Americains  " 
the  kick  under  the  nose. 

In  the  three  or  four  weeks  which  followed,  the 
General  gathered  a  surfeit  of  adulation,  notwithstand- 
ing which  he  was  constantly  and  with  pain  imagining 
a  confused  chatter  of  ladies,  and  when  he  shut  his 
eyes  with  annoyance,  there  was  Madame  Delicieuse 
standing,  and  saying,  "  I  knew  not  a  reason  why  you 
should  be  angry  against  your  son,"  gazing  in  his  face 
with  hardened  simplicity,  and  then  —  that  last  scene 
on  the  stairs  wherein  he  seemed  still  to  be  descending, 
down,  down. 

Madame  herself  was  keeping  good  her  resolution. 

"Now  or  never,"  she  said,  "a  reconciliation  or  a 
quarrel." 

When  the  General,  to  keep  up  appearances,  called 
again,  she  so  moved  him  with  an  account  of  certain 
kindly  speeches  of  her  own  invention,  which  she  im- 
puted to  Dr.  Mossy,  that  he  promised  to  call  and  see 
his  son  ;  "perhaps;"   "  pretty  soon  ;  "  "probably." 

Dr.  Mossy,  sitting  one  February  morning  among  his 
specimens  and  books  of  reference,  finishing  a  thrilling 
chapter  on  the  cuticle,  too  absorbed  to  hear  a  door 
open,  suddenly  realized  that  something  was  in  his 
light,  and,  looking  up,  beheld  General  Villi vicencio 
standing  over  him.  Breathing  a  pleased  sigh,  he  put 
down  his  pen,  and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  father's  shoulder,  and  lifting  bis  lips  like  a  little 
wife,  kissed  him. 

"  Be  seated,  papa,"  he  said,  offering  his  own  chair, 
and  perching  on  the  desk. 


286  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

The  General  took  it,  and,  clearing  his  throat,  gazed 
around  upon  the  jars  and  jars  with  their  little  Adams 
and  Eves  in  zoological  gardens. 

"  Is  all  going  well,  papa?  "  finally  asked  Dr.  Mossy. 

"Yes." 

Then  there  was  a  long  pause. 

"  'Tis  a  beautiful  day,"  said  the  son. 

"  Very  beautiful,"  rejoined  the  father. 

"  I  thought  there  would  have  been  a  rain,  but  it  has 
cleared  off,"  said  the  son. 

"  Yes,"  responded  the  father,  and  drummed  on  the 
desk. 

"Does  it  appear  to  be  turning  cool?"  asked  the 
son. 

"  No ;  it  does  not  appear  to  be  turning  cool  at  all," 
was  the  answer. 

"H'm  'm!"  said  Dr.  Mossy. 

"Hem!"  said  General  Villivicencio. 

Dr.  Mossy,  not  realizing  his  own  action,  stole  a 
glance  at  his  manuscript. 

"  I  am  interrupting  you,"  said  the  General,  quickly, 
and  rose. 

"  No,  no  !  pardon  me  ;  be  seated  ;  it  gives  me  great 
pleasure  to  —  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing.  It  is 
the  work  with  which  I  fill  my  leisure  moments." 

So  the  General  settled  down  again,  and  father  and 
son  sat  very  close  to  each  other  —  in  a  bodily  sense  ; 
spiritually  they  were  many  miles  apart.  The  General's 
finger-ends,  softly  tapping  the  desk,  had  the  sound  of 
far-away  drums. 

"The  city  —  it  is  healthy?"  asked  the  General. 


MADAME  DE~LICIEUSE.  287 

"Did  you  ask  me  if"  —  said  the  little  Doctor,  start- 
ing and  looking  up. 

"  The  city  —  it  has  not  much  sickness  at  present?  " 
repeated  the  father. 

"  No,  yes  —  not  much,"  said  Mossy,  and,  with 
utter  unconsciousness,  leaned  down  upon  his  elbow 
and  supplied  an  omitted  word  to  the  manuscript. 

The  General  was  on  his  feet  as  if  by  the  touch  of  a 
spring. 

"  I  must  go  !  " 

"Ah!  no,  papa,"  said  the  son. 

"  But,  yes,  I  must." 

"  But  wait,  papa,  I  had  just  now  something  to  speak 
of"  — 

"Well?  "  said  the  General,  standing  with  his  hand 
on  the  door,  and  with  rather  a  dark  countenance. 

Dr.  Mossy  touched  his  fingers  to  his  forehead,  try- 
ing to  remember. 

"I  fear  I  have  —  ah!  I  rejoice  to  see  your  name 
before  the  public,  dear  papa,  and  at  the  head  of  the 
ticket." 

The  General's  displeasure  sank  down  like  an  eagle's 
feathers.     He  smiled  thankfully,  and  bowed. 

"  My  friends  compelled  me,"  he  said. 

' '  They  think  you  will  be  elected  ?  ' ' 

"They  will  not  doubt  it.  But  what  think  you,  my 
son?" 

Now  the  son  had  a  conviction  which  it  would  have 
been  madness  to  express,  so  he  only  said : 

"  They  could  not  elect  one  more  faithful." 

The  General  bowed  solemnly. 


288  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"Perhaps  the  people  will  think  so;  my  friends  be- 
lieve they  will." 

"Your  friends  who  have  used  your  name  should 
help  you  as  much  as  they  can,  papa,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"  Myself,  I  should  like  to  assist  you,  papa,  if  I  could." 

"  A-bah  !  "  said  the  pleased  father,  incredulously. 

"  But,  yes,"  said  the  son. 

A  thrill  of  delight  filled  the  General's  frame.  Tliis 
was  like  a  son. 

"Thank  you,  my  son!  I  thank  you  much.  Ah, 
Mossy,  my  dear  boy,  you  make  me  happy  ! ' ' 

"But,"  added  Mossy,  realizing  with  a  tremor  how 
far  he  had  gone,  "  I  see  not  how  it  is  possible." 

The  General's  chin  dropped. 

"Not  being  a  public  man,"  continued  the  Doctor; 
"  unless,  indeed,  my  pen  —  you  might  enlist  my  pen." 

He  paused  with  a  smile  of  bashful  inquiry.  The 
General  stood  aghast  for  a  moment,  and  then  caught 
the  idea. 

"Certainly!  cer-tain-ly  !  ha,  ha,  ha!"  —  backing 
out  of  the  door — "certainly!  Ah!  Mossy,  you  are 
right,  to  be  sure ;  to  make  a  complete  world  we  must 
have  swords  and  pens.  Well,  my  son,  '  au  revoir;' 
no,  I  cannot  stay  —  I  will  return.  I  hasten  to  tell  my 
friends  that  the  pen  of  Dr.  Mossy  is  on  our  side ! 
Adieu,  dear  son." 

Standing  outside  on  the  banquette  he  bowed  —  not 
to  Dr.  Mossy,  but  to  the  balcony  of  the  big  red-brick 
front  —  a  most  sunshiny  smile,  and  departed. 

The  very  next  morning,  as  if  fate  had  ordered  it, 
the  Yillivicencio  ticket  was  attacked  —  ambushed,  as 


MADAME  DE~LICIEUSE.  289 

it  were,  from  behind  the  Am6ricain  newspaper.  The 
onslaught  was  —  at  least  General  Villivicencio  said  it 
was  —  absolutely  ruffianly.  Never  had  all  the  lofty 
courtesies  and  formalities  of  chivalric  contest  been  so 
completely  ignored.  Poisoned  balls  —  at  least  per- 
sonal epithets  —  were  used.  The  General  himself  was 
called  ' '  antiquated !  ' '  The  friends  who  had  nomi- 
nated him,  they  were  positively  sneered  at ;  dubbed 
"fossils,"  "old  ladies,"  and  their  caucus  termed 
"  irresponsible  "  — thunder  and  lightning  !  gentlemen 
of  honor  to  be  termed  ' '  not  responsible  !  "  It  was 
asserted  that  the  nomination  was  made  secretly,  in  a 
private  house,  by  two  or  three  unauthorized  harum- 
scarums  (that  touched  the  very  bone)  who  had  with 
more  caution  than  propriety  withheld  their  names. 
The  article  was  headed,  "  The  Crayfish-eaters'  Ticket." 
It  contiuued  further  to  say  that,  had  not  the  publica- 
tion of  this  ticket  been  regarded  as  a  dull  hoax,  it 
would  not  have  been  suffered  to  pass  for  two  weeks 
unchallenged,  and  that  it  was  now  high  time  the  uni- 
versal wish  should  be  realized  in  its  withdrawal. 

Among  the  earliest  readers  of  this  production  was 
the  young  Madame.  She  first  enjoyed  a  quiet  gleeful 
smile  over  it,  and  then  called  : 

"  Ninide,  here,  take  this  down  to  Dr.  Mossy  — 
stop."  She  marked  the  communication  heavily  with 
her  gold  pencil.    "  No  answer  ;  he  need  not  return  it." 

About  the  same  hour,  and  in  a  neighboring  street, 
one  of  the  "not  responsibles  "  knocked  on  ihe  Villi- 
vicencio castle  gate.  The  General  invited  him  into 
his  bedroom.     With  a  short  and  strictly  profane  har- 


290  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

angne  the  visitor  produced  the  offensive  newspaper, 
)  and  was  about  to  begin  reading,  when  one  of  those 
loud  nasal  blasts,  so  peculiar  to  the  Gaul,  resounded 
at  the  gate,  and  another  "not  responsible"  entered, 
more  excited,  if  possible,  than  the  first.  Several 
minutes  were  spent  in  exchanging  fierce  sentiments 
and  slapping  the  palm  of  the  left  hand  rapidly  with 
the  back  of  the  right.  Presently  there  was  a  pause 
for  breath. 

"  Alphonse,  proceed  to  read,"  said  the  General, 
sitting  up  in  bed. 

"  De  Crayfish-eaters'  Ticket" — began  Alphonse; 
but  a  third  rapping  at  the  gate  interrupted  him,  and  a 
third  "  irresponsible  "  re-enforced  their  number,  talk- 
ing loudly  and  wildly  to  the  waiting-man  as  he  came  up 
the  hall. 

Finally,  Alphonse  read  the  article.  Little  by  little 
the  incensed  gentlemen  gave  it  a  hearing,  now  two 
words  and  now  three,  interrupting  it  to  rip  out  long, 
rasping  maledictions,  and  wag  their  forefingers  at  each 
other  as  the}'  strode  ferociously  about  the  apartment. 

As  Alphonse  reached  the  close,  and  dashed  the 
paper  to  the  floor,  the  whole  quartet,  in  terrific  uni- 
son, cried  for  the  blood  of  the  editor. 

But  hereupon  the  General  spoke  with  authority. 

"No,  Messieurs,"  he  said,  buttoning  his  dressing- 
gown,  savagely,  "  you  shall  not  fight  him.  I  forbid  it 
—  you  shall  not !  ' ' 

"But,"  cried  the  three  at  once,  "one  of  us  must 
fight,  and  you  —  you  cannot ;  if  you  fight  our  cause  is 
lost !     The  candidate  must  not  fio'ht." 


MADAME  DlZLICIEUSE.  291 

"  Ilali-h !  Messieurs,"  cried  the  hero,  beating  his 
breast  and  lifting  his  eyes,  u  grace  au  del.  I  have  a 
son.  Yes,  my  beloved  friends,  a  son  who  shall  call 
the  villain  out  and  make  him  pay  for  his  impudence 
with  blood,  or  eat  his  words  in  to-morrow  morning's 
paper.  Heaven  be  thanked  that  gave  me  a  son  for- 
tius occasion  !  I  shall  see  him  at  once  —  as  soon  as 
I  can  dress." 

"  We  will  go  with  you." 

"No,  gentlemen,  let  me  see  my  son  alone.  I  can 
meet  you  at  Maspero's  in  two  hours.  Adieu,  my  dear 
friends." 

He  was  resolved. 

"  Au  revoiv,"  said  the  dear  friends. 

Shortly  after,  cane  in  hand,  General  Villivicencio 
moved  with  an  ireful  stride  up  the  banquette  of  Rue 
Roy  ale.  Just  as  he  passed  the  red-brick  front  one  of 
the  batten  shutters  opened  the  faintest  bit,  and  a  cer- 
tain pair  of  lovely  eyes  looked  after  him,  without  any 
of  that  round  simplicity  which  we  have  before  discov- 
ered in  them.  As  he  half  turned  to  knock  at  his  son's 
door  he  glanced  at  this  very  shutter,  but  it  was  as 
tightly  closed  as  though  the  house  were  an  enchanted 
palace. 

Dr.  Mossy's  door,  on  the  contrary,  swung  ajar  when 
he  knocked,  and  the  General  entered. 

"Well,  my  son,  have  you  seen  that  newspaper? 
No,  I  think  not.  I  see  you  have  not,  since  your  cheeks 
are  not  red  with  shame  and  anger." 

Dr.  Mossy  looked  up  with  astonishment  from  the 
desk  where  he  sat  writing:. 


292  OLD    CREOLE  DAYS. 

"What  is  that,  papa?" 

"  My  faith !  Mossy,  is  it  possible  you  have  not 
heard  of  the  attack  upon  me,  which  has  surprised  and 
exasperated  the  city  this  morning  ?  ' ' 

"No,"  said  Dr.  Mossy,  with  still  greater  surprise, 
and  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

His  father  put  on  a  dying  look.  "  My  soul !  "  At 
that  moment  his  glance  fell  upon  the  paper  which  had 
been  sent  in  by  Madame  Delieieuse.  "But,  Mossy, 
my  son,"  he  screamed,  "  there  it  is  !  "  striking  it  rap- 
idly with  one  finger —  "  there  !  there  !  there  !  read  it ! 
It  calls  me  '  not  responsible  !  '  '  not  responsible  '  it 
calls  me  !     Read !    read !  ' ' 

"But,  papa,"  said  the  quiet  little  Doctor,  rising, 
and  accepting  the  crumpled  paper  thrust  at  him,  "I 
have  read  this.  If  this  is  it,  well,  then,  already  I  am 
preparing  to  respond  to  it." 

The  General  seized  him  violently,  and,  spreading  a 
suffocating  kiss  on  his  face,  sealed  it  with  an  affec- 
tionate oath. 

"Ah,  Mossy,  my  boy,  you  are  glorious!  You  had 
begun  already  to  write  !  You  are  glorious  !  Read  to 
me  what  you  have  written,  my  son." 

The  Doctor  took  up  a  bit  of  manuscript,  and  resum- 
ing his  chair,  began  : 

"Messes.  Editors:  On  your  journal  of  this  morning"  — 

"Eh!  how!  you  have  not  written  it  in  English,  is 
it,  son?  " 

"  But,  yes,  papa." 

"  'Tis  a  vile  tongue,"  said  the  General ;  "  but,  if  it 
is  necessary  —  proceed. ' ' 


MADAME  DfiLICIEUSE.  293 

"Messrs.  Editors:  On  your  journal  of  this  morning  is 
published  an  editorial  article  upon  the  Villivicencio  ticket, 
which  is  plentiful  and  abundant  with  mistakes.  Who  is  the 
author  or  writer  of  the  above  said  editorial  article  your  corre- 
spondent does  at  present  ignore,  but  doubts  not  he  is  one  who, 
hasty  to  form  an  opinion,  will  yet,  however,  make  his  assent  to 
die  correction  of  some  errors  and  mistakes  which  "  — 

"  Bah  !  "  cried  the  General. 

Dr.  Mossy  looked  up,  blushing  crimson. 

"Bah!"  cried  the  General,  still  more  forcibly. 
"Betise!" 

"  How?  "  asked  the  gentle  son. 

" 'Tis  all  nonsent !  "  cried  the  General,  bursting 
into  English.  "Hall  you  'ave  to  say  is:  '  'Sieur* 
Editeurs  !  I  want  you  s'all  give  de  nera  of  de  in- 
dignan'  scoundrel  who  meek  some  lies  on  you'  paper 
about  mon  pere  et  ses  amis  !  " 

"  Ah-li !  "  said  Dr.  Mossy,  in  a  tone  of  derision 
and  auger. 

His  father  gazed  at  him  in  mute  astonishment.  He 
stood  beside  his  disorderly  little  desk,  his  small  form 
drawn  up,  a  hand  thrust  into  his  breast,  and  that  look 
of  invincibility  in  his  eyes  such  as  b]ue  eyes  sometimes 
surprise  us  with. 

"  You  want  me  to  fight,"  he  said. 

"My  faith!"  gasped  the  General,  loosening  in  all 
his  joints.  "  I  believe  —  you  may  cut  me  in  pieces  if 
I  do  not  believe  you  were  going  to  reason  it  out  in  the 
newspaper !  Fight  ?  If  I  want  you  to  fight  ?  Upon 
my  soul,  I  believe  you  do  not  want  to  fight !  " 

"  No,"  said  Mossy. 


294  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

"My  God!"  whispered  the  General.  His  heart 
seemed  to  break. 

"Yes,"  said  the  steadily  gazing  Doctor,  his  lips 
trembling  as  he  opened  them.  "Yes,  your  God.  I 
am  afraid  ' '  — 

"  Afraid  !  "  gasped  the  General. 

"Yes,"  rang  out  the  Doctor,  "afraid;  afraid! 
God  forbid  that  I  should  not  be  afraid.  But  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  do  not  fear  —  I  do  not  fear  to  call  your 
affairs  of  honor — murder  !  " 

' '  My  son  ! ' '  cried  the  father. 

"  I  retract,"  cried  the  son  ;  "  consider  it  unsaid.  I 
will  never  reproach  my  father." 

"It  is  well,"  said  the  father.  "  I  was  wrong.  It 
is  my  quarrel.     I  go  to  settle  it  myself." 

Dr.  Mossy  moved  quickly  between  his  father  and 
the  door.  General  Yillivicencio  stood  before  him 
utterly  bowed  down. 

"What  will  you?"  sadly  demanded  the  old  man. 

"Papa,"  said  the  son,  with  much  tenderness,  "I 
cannot  permit  you.  Fifteen  years  we  were  strangers, 
and  yesterday  were  friends.  You  must  not  leave  me 
so.  I  will  even  settle  this  quarrel  for  you.  You  must 
let  me.     I  am  pledged  to  your  service." 

The  peace-loving  little  doctor  did  not  mean  ' '  to 
settle,"  but  "to  adjust."  He  felt  in  an  instant  that 
he  was  misunderstood  ;  yet,  as  quiet  people  are  apt  to 
do,  though  not  wishing  to  deceive,  he  let  the  misinter- 
pretation stand.  In  his  embarrassment  he  did  not 
know  with  absolute  certainty  what  he  should  do  him- 
self. 


MADAME  DE'LICIEUSE.  295 

The  father's  face  —  he  thought  of  but  one  way  to 
settle  a  quarrel  —  began  instantly  to  brighten.  "I 
would  myself  do  it,"  he  said,  apologetically,  "but  my 
friends  forbid  it." 

"And  so  do  I,"  said  the  Doctor,  "but  I  will  go 
myself  now,  and  will  not  return  until  all  is  finished. 
Give  me  the  paper." 

"  My  son,  I  do  not  wish  to  compel  you." 

There  was  something  acid  in  the  Doctor's  smile  as 
he  answered  : 

"  No  ;  but  give  me  the  paper,  if  you  please." 

The  General  handed  it. 

"  Papa,"  said  the  son,  "  you  must  wait  here  for  my 
return." 

"  But  I  have  an  appointment  at  Maspero's  at  "  — 

"I  will  call  and  make  excuse  for  you,"  said  the 
son. 

"Well,"  consented  the  almost  happy  father,  "go, 
my  son ;  I  will  stay.  But  if  some  of  your  sick  shall 
call?" 

"Sit  quiet,"  said  the  son.  "They  will  think  no 
one  is  here."  And  the  General  noticed  that  the  dust 
lay  so  thick  on  the  panes  that  a  person  outside  would 
have  to  put  his  face  close  to  the  glass  to  see  within. 

In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  the  Doctor  had  reached 
the  newspaper  office,  thrice  addressed  himself  to  the 
wrong  person,  finally  found  the  courteous  editor,  and 
easily  convinced  him  that  his  father  had  been  imposed 
upon  ;  but  when  Dr.  Mossy  went  farther,  and  asked 
which  one  of  the  talented  editorial  staff  had  written 
the  article : 


296  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

"You  see,  Doctor,"  said  the  editor  —  "just  step 
into  my  private  office  a  moment.'' 

They  went  in  together.  The  next  minute  saw  Dr. 
Mossy  departing  hurriedly  from  the  place,  while  the 
editor  complacently  resumed  his  pen,  assured  that  he 
would  not  return. 

General  Villivicencio  sat  and  waited  among  the  ser- 
pents and  innocents.  His  spirits  began  to  droop 
again.  Revolving  Mossy 's  words,  he  could  not  escape 
the  fear  that  possibly,  after  all,  his  son  might  compro- 
mise the  Villivicencio  honor  in  the  interests  of  peace. 
Not  that  he  preferred  to  put  his  son's  life  in  jeopardy  ; 
he  would  not  object  to  an  adjustment,  provided  the 
enemy  should  beg  for  it.  But  if  not,  whom  would  his 
son  select  to  perform  those  friendly  offices  indispens- 
able in  polite  quarrels?  Some  half-priest,  half-woman? 
Some  spectacled  book-worm?     He  suffered. 

The  monotony  of  his  passive  task  was  relieved  by 
one  or  two  callers  who  had  the  sagacity  (or  bad  man- 
ners) to  peer  through  the  dirty  glass,  and  then  open 
the  door,  to  whom,  half  rising  from  his  chair,  he 
answered,  with  a  polite  smile,  that  the  Doctor  was  out, 
nor  could  he  say  how  long  he  might  be  absent.  Still 
the  time  dragged  painfully,  and  he  began  at  length  to 
wonder  why  Mossy  did  not  return. 

There  came  a  rap  at  the  glass  door  different  from  all 
the  raps  that  had  forerun  it  —  a  fearless,  but  gentle, 
dignified,  graceful  rap  ;  and  the  General,  before  he 
looked  round,  felt  in  all  his  veins  that  it  came  from 
the  young  Madame.  Yes,  there  was  her  glorious  out- 
line thrown  sidewise  upon  the  glass.      He  hastened 


MADAME  DfiLICIEUSE.  297 

and  threw  open  the  door,  bending  low  at  the  same 
instant,  and  extending  his  hand. 

She  extended  hers  also,  but  not  to  take  his.  With 
a  calm  dexterity  that  took  the  General's  breath,  she 
reached  between  him  and  the  door,  and  closed  it. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  anxiously  asked  the  General 
—  for  her  face,  in  spite  of  its  smile,  was  severe. 

"General,"  she  began,  ignoring  his  inquiry  —  and, 
with  all  her  Creole  bows,  smiles,  and  insinuating 
phrases,  the  severity  of  her  countenance  but  partially 
waned  —  "I  came  to  see  my  physician  —  your  son. 
Ah  !  General,  when  I  find  you  reconciled  to  your  son, 
it  makes  me  think  I  am  in  heaven.  You  will  let  me 
say  so?  You  will  not  be  offended  with  the  old  play- 
mate of  your  son  ?  ' ' 

She  gave  him  no  time  to  answer. 

"  He  is  out,  I  think,  is  he  not?  But  I  am  glad  of 
it.  It  gives  us  occasion  to  rejoice  together  over  his 
many  merits.  For  you  know,  General,  in  all  the  years 
of  your  estrangement,  Mossy  had  no  friend  like  myself. 
I  am  proud  to  tell  you  so  now  ;  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

The  General  was  so  taken  aback  that,  when  he  had 
thanked  her  in  a  mechanical  way,  he  could  say  nothing 
else.  She  seemed  to  fall  for  a  little  while  into  a 
sad  meditation  that  embarrassed  him  beyond  measure. 
But  as  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  she  resumed : 

"Nobody  knew  him  so  well  as  I;  though  I,  poor 
me,  I  could  not  altogether  understand  him  ;  for  look 
you,  General,  he  was  —  what  do  you  think?  —  a  great 
man  !  —  nothing  less . " 

"  How?  "  asked  the  General,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  respond. 


t 


298  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"You  never  dreamed  of  that,  eh?"  continued  the 
lady.  "But,  of  course  not;  nobody  did  but  me. 
Some  of  those  Americains,  I  suppose,  knew  it ;  but 
who  would  ever  ask  them?  Here  in  Royal  Street,  in 
New  Orleans,  where  we  people  know  nothing  and  care 
nothing  but  for  meat,  drink,  and  pleasure,  he  was  only 
Dr.  Mossy,  who  gave  pills.  My  faith !  General,  no 
wonder  you  were  disappointed  in  your  son,  for  you 
thought  the  same.  Ah  !  yes,  you  did !  But  why  did 
you  not  ask  me,  his  old  playmate?  I  knew  better.  I 
could  have  told  you  how  your  little  son  stood  head  and 
shoulders  above  the  crowd.  I  could  have  told  }-ou 
some  things  too  wonderful  to  believe.  I  could  have 
told  3tou  that  his  name  was  known  and  honored  in  the 
scientific  schools  of  Paris,  of  London,  of  Germany  ! 
Yes  !  I  could  have  shown  you  "  —  she  warmed  as  she 
proceeded  —  "I  could  have  shown  you  letters  (I 
begged  them  of  him) ,  written  as  between  brother 
and  brother,  from  the  foremost  men  of  science  and 
discovery  !  ' ' 

She  stood  up,  her  eyes  flashing  with  excitement. 

"  But  why  did  you  never  tell  me?"  cried  the  Gen- 
eral. 

' '  He  never  would  allow  me  —  but  you  —  why  did 
you  not  ask  me  ?  I  will  tell  you  ;  you  were  too  proud 
to  mention  your  son.  But  he  had  pride  to  match  yours 
— ha  !  —  achieving  all  —  every  thiug  —  with  an  assumed 
name  !  '  Let  me  tell  your  father, '  I  implored  him  ; 
but — 'let  him  find  me  out,'  he  said,  and  }Tou  never 
found  him  out.  Ah !  there  he  was  fine.  He  would 
not,  he  said,  though  only  for  your  sake,  re-enter  your 


MADAME  DfiLICIEUSE.  299 

affections  as  any  thing  more  or  less  than  just  —  your 
son.     Ha!" 

And  so  she  went  on.  Twenty  times  the  old  Gen- 
eral was  astonished  anew,  twenty  times  was  angry  or 
alarmed  enough  to  cry  out,  but  twenty  times  she  would 
not  be  interrupted.  Once  he  attempted  to  laugh,  but 
again  her  hand  commanded  silence. 

"  Behold,  Monsieur,  all  these  dusty  specimens,  these 
revolting  fragments.  How  have  you  blushed  to  know 
that  our  idle  people  laugh  in  their  sleeves  at  these 
things  !  How  have  you  blushed  —  and  you  his  father  ! 
But  why  did  you  not  ask  me  ?  I  could  have  told  you  : 
'  Sir,  your  son  is  not  an  apothecaiy  ;  not  one  of  these 
ugly  things  but  has  helped  him  on  in  the  glorious  path 
of  discovery;  discovery,  General — your  son  —  known 
in  Europe  as  a  scientific  discoverer !  '  Ah-h  !  the  blind 
people  say,  '  How  is  that,  that  General  Villivicencio 
should  be  dissatisfied  with  his  son?  He  is  a  good  man, 
and  a  good  doctor,  only  a  little  careless,  that's  all.' 
But  you  were  more  blind  still,  for  you  shut  }Tour  eyes 
tight  like  this  ;  when,  had  you  searched  for  his  virtues 
as  you  did  for  his  faults,  you,  too,  might  have  known 
before  it  was  too  late  what  nobility,  what  beauty, 
what  strength,  were  in  the  character  of  your  poor, 
poor  son  !  " 

"Just  Heaven!  Madame,  you  shall  not  speak  of 
my  son  as  of  one  dead  and  buried !  But,  if  you  have 
some  bad  news  "  — 

"Your  son  took  your  quarrel  on  his  hands,  eh?  " 

' '  I  believe  so  —  I  think ' '  — 

"Well;  I  saw  him  an  hour  ago  in  search  of  your 
slanderer!  " 


300  OLD   CREOLE  DAYS. 

"He  must  find  liira  !  "  said  the  General,  plucking 
up. 

"But  if  the  search  is  already  over,"  slowly  re- 
sponded Madame. 

The  father  looked  one  instant  in  her  face,  then  rose 
with  an  exclamation : 

"Where  is  my  son?  "What  has  happened?  Do 
you  think  I  am  a  child,  to  be  trifled  with  —  a  horse 
to  be  teased  ?     Tell  me  of  my  son  !  ' ' 

Madame  was  stricken  with  genuine  anguish. 

"Take  your  chair,"  she  begged;  "wait;  listen; 
take  your  chair." 

"  Never  !  "  cried  the  General ;  "I  am  going  to  find 
my  son  —  my  God!  Madame,  you  have  locked  this 
door!  What  are  you,  that  you  should  treat  me  so? 
Give  me,  this  instant  "  — 

"Oh!  Monsieur,  I  beseech  you  to  take  your  chair, 
and  I  will  tell  you  all.  You  can  do  nothing  now. 
Listen !  suppose  you  should  rush  out  and  find  that 
your  son  had  played  the  coward  at  last !  Sit  down 
and ' '  — 

"Ah  !  Madame,  this  is  play  !  "  cried  the  distracted 
man. 

"iBut  no  ;  it  is  not  play.  Sit  down  ;  I  want  to  ask 
you  something." 

He  sank  down  and  she  stood  over  him,  anguish  and 
triumph  strangely  mingled  in  her  beautiful  face. 

"  General,  tell  me  true  ;  did  you  not  force  this  quar- 
rel into  your  son's  hand?  I  know  he  would  not  choose 
to  have  it.  Did  you  not  do  it  to  test  his  courage, 
because  all  these  fifteen  years  you  have  made  yourself 


MADAME  DtiLICIEUSE.  301 

a  fool  with  the  fear  that  he  became  a  student  only  to 
escape  being  a  soldier?     Did  you  not?  " 

Her  eyes  looked  him  through  and  through. 

"  And  if  I  did?  "  demanded  he  with  faint  defiance. 

"Yes!  and  if  he  has  made  dreadful  haste  and 
proved  his  courage?  "  asked  she. 

"Well,  then,"  —  the  General  straightened  up  tri- 
umphantly—  "  then  he  is  my  son  !  " 

He  beat  the  desk. 

"  And  heir  to  your  wealth,  for  example?  " 

"  Certainly." 

The  lady  bowed  in  solemn  mockery. 

"  It  will  make  him  a  magnificent  funeral !  " 

The  father  bounded  up  and  stood  speechless,  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot.  Madame  looked  straight  in 
his  e}~e. 

"  Your  son  has  met  the  writer  of  that  article." 

"  Where?  "  the  old  man's  lips  tried  to  ask. 

"  Suddenly,  unexpectedly,  in  a  passage-way." 

"  My  God  !   and  the  villain  "  —      - 

"  Lives  !  "  cried  Madame. 

He  rushed  to  the  door,  forgetting  that  it  was  locked. 

"Give  me  that  key!"  he  cried,  wrenched  at  the 
knob,  turned  away  bewildered,  turned  again  toward  it, 
and  again  away  ;  and  at  every  step  and  turn  "he  cried, 
"  Oh  !  my  son,  my  son  !  I  have  killed  my  son  !  Oh  ! 
Mossy,  my  son,  my  little  boy  !    Oh  !  my  son,  my  son  !  " 

Madame  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed 
aloud.  Then  the  father  hushed  his  cries  and  stood  for 
a  moment  before  her. 

"  Give  me  the  key,  Clarisse,  let  me  go." 


802  OLD   CREOLE  DATS. 

She  rose  and  laid  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 
'-   "  "What  is  it,  Clarisse?  "  asked  he. 

"  Your  son  and  I  were  ten  years  betrothed." 

"Oh,  my  child!  " 

"Because,  being  disinherited,  he  would  not  be  my 
husband." 

"  Alas  !  would  to  God  I  had  known  it !  Oh  !  Mossy, 
my  son." 

"  Oh  !  Monsieur,"  cried  the  lady,  clasping  her  hands, 
"forgive  me  —  mourn  no  more  —  your  son  is  un- 
harmed !  /  wrote  the  article  —  I  am  your  recanting 
slanderer !  Your  son  is  hunting  for  me  now.  I  told 
my  aunt  to  misdirect  him.  I  slipped  by  him  unseen 
in  the  carriage-way." 

The  wild  old  General,  having  already  staggered  back 
and  rushed  forward  again,  would  have  seized  her  in 
his  arms,  had  not  the  little  Doctor  himself  at  that  in- 
stant violently  rattled  the  door  and  shook  his  finger  at 
them  playfully  as  he  peered  through  the  glass. 

"Behold!"  said  Madame,  attempting  a  smile: 
"  open  to  your  son  ;  here  is  the  key." 

She  sank  into  a  chair. 

Father  and  son  leaped  into  each  other's  arms  ;  then 
turned  to  Madame  : 

"  Ah  !  thou  lovehy  mischief-maker  "  — 

She  had  fainted  away. 

"Ah!  well,  keep  out  of  the  way,  if  yon  please, 
papa,"  said  Dr.  Moss}T,  as  Madame  presently  re- 
opened her  eyes  ;  "no  wonder  you  fainted  ;  you  have 
finished  some  hard  work  —  see  ;  here  ;  so  ;  Clarisse, 
dear,  take  this." 


MADAME  DELICIEUSE.  303 

Father  and  son  stood  side  by  side,  tenderly  regard- 
ing her  as  she  revived. 

"Now,  papa,  you  may  kiss  her;  she  is  quite  her- 
self again,  already." 

' '  My  daughter  ! ' '  said  the  stately  General ;  ' '  this 
—  is  my  son's  ransom;  and,  with  this,  —  I  withdraw 
the  Villivicencio  ticket." 

"You  shall  not,"  exclaimed  the  laughing  lady, 
throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"But,  yes!"  he  insisted;  "my  faith!  you  will  at 
least  allow  me  to  remove  my  dead  from  the  field." 

"  But,  certainly  ;  "  said  the  son  ;  "  see,  Clarisse,  here 
is  Madame,  your  aunt,  asking  us  all  into  the  house. 
Let  us  go." 

The  group  passed  out  into  the  Rue  Royale,  Dr. 
Mossy  shutting  the  door  behind  them.  The  sky  was 
blue,  the  air  was  soft  and  balmy,  and  on  the  sweet 
south  breeze,  to  which  the  old  General  bared  his  grate- 
ful brow,  floated  a  ravishing  odor  of  — 

' '  Ah  !  what  is  it  ?  "  the  veteran  asked  of  the  younger 
pair,  seeing  the  little  aunt  glance  at  them  with  a  play- 
ful smile. 

Madame  Delicieuse,  for  almost  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  and  Dr.  Mossy  for  the  thousandth  —  blushed. 

It  was  the  odor  of  orange-blossoms. 


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MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER.     An  American  Story. 

The  life  and  incidents  are  taken  in  about  equal  proportions  from 
the  city  and  country— the  commercial  metropolis  and  a  New  Hamp- 
shire village.  It  is  said  that  the  author  has  drawn  upon  his  own 
early  experiences  and  history  for  a  large  part  of  the  narrative. 


:  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  by 
CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    Publishers, 
743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


GEORGE  W.  CABLE'S  NOVELS. 


THE  GRANDISSIMES.      A  Story  of  Creole  Life.      One  vol., 
l2mo,  $1.50. 

"  The  Graiidissim.es  is  a  novel  that  repays  study.  It  opens  to 
most  of  us  an  unknown  society,  an  unknown  world,  absolutely 
fresh  characters,  a  dialect  of  which  we  had  only  fragments  before, 
and  it  illuminates  a  historical  period  that  was  in  the  dark. 
It  is  in  many  respects  the  most  original  contribution  to  American 
fiction. " — Hartford  CouranU 

OLD  CREOLE  DAYS.     One  vol.,  i6mo,  extra  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  These  charming  stories  attract  attention  and  commendation  by 
their  quaint  delicacy  of  style,  their  faithful  delineation  of  Creole 
character,  and  a  marked  originality.  The  careful  rendering  of  the 
dialect  reveals  patient  study  of  living  models ;  and  to  any  reader 
whose  ear  is  accustomed  to  the  broken  English,  as  heard  in  parts 
of  our  city  every  day,  its  truth  to  nature  is  striking.'' — New  Orleans 
Picayune. 

MADAME  DELPHINE.     One  vol.,  square  i2mo,  cloth,  75  cents. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  books  in  which  the  reader  feels  a  kind  of  per- 
sonal interest  and  is  sorry  that  he  cannot  continue  the  acquaintance 
of  their  people  after  the  volume  is  closed." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


EDWARD  EGGLESTON'S  NOVELS. 


ROXY.     One  vol.,  i2mo,  cloth,  with  twelve  full-page  illustrations  from 
original  designs  by  Walter  Shirlaw.     Price,  $1.50. 

"  One  of  the  ablest   of  recent  American  novels,  and  indeed   in  all 
recent  works  of  fiction." — The  London  Spectator. 


*};*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  by 

CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S     SONS,     Publishers, 
743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


THE  CIRCUIT  RIDER.     A  Tale  of    the    Heroic    Age.       One 

vol.,  i2mo,  extra  cloth,  illustrated  with  over  thirty  characteristic 
drawings  by  G.  G.  White  and  Sol.  Eytinge.     Price  $1.50. 

"The  best  American  story,  and  the  most  thoroughly  American  one 
that  has  appeared  for  years." — Philade.phia  Evening  Bullet  in. 


H.  H.  BOYESEN'S  NOVELS. 


FALCONBERG.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     One  vol.,  $1.50. 

"It  is  a  good  story,  out  of  the  ordinary  rut,  and  wholly  enjoy- 
able. ' '  —  Chicago  Inter-  Ocean. 

GUNNAR.     A  Tale  of  Norse  Life.      One  vol.,  square  i2mo,  $1.25. 

"  This  little  book  is  a  perfect  gem  of  poetic  prose  ;  every  page  is 
full  of  expressive  and  vigorous  pictures  of  Norwegian  life  and 
scenery.  Gunnar  is  simply  beautiful  as  a  delicate,  clear,  and  power- 
ful picture  of  peasant  life  in  Norway." — Boston  Post. 

ILKA  ON  THE    HILL-TOP,    and   Other    Stories.       One  vol., 
square  i2mo,  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Boyesen's  stories  possess  a  sweetness,  a  tenderness,  and  a 
drollery  that  are  fascinating,  and  yet  they  are  no  more  attractive 
than  they  are  strong." — Home  Journal. 

TALES  FROM  TWO  HEMISPHERES.       A    New    Edition. 

One  vol.,  square  121110,  $1.00. 

"  The  charm  of  Mr.  Boyesen's  stories  lies  in  their  strength  and 
purity  ;  they  offer,  too,  a  refreshing  escape  from  the  subtlety  and  in- 
trospection of  the  present  form  of  fiction.  They  are  robust  and 
strong  without  caricature  or  sentimentality." — Chicago  Interior. 

QUEEN  TITANIA.     One  vol.,  square  i2mo,  $1.00. 

"  One  of  the  most  pure  and  lovable  creations  of  modern  fiction." — 
Boston  Sunday  Herald. 

"  The  story  is  a  thoroughly  charming  one,  and  there  is  much  in- 
genuity in  the  plot." — I  he  Critic. 


*#*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  vpon  receipt  of  price,  by 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,     Publishers, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


KNIGHTS  OF  TO-DAY;  or,  Love  and  Science.  By  Charles 
Barnard.     One  vol.,   i2mo,  $1.00. 

"A  volume  of  dashing,  lively  stories,  in  which  the  romance  of  love 
is  mingled  with  the  romance  of  science  in  perfectly  artistic  propor- 
tions.    The  stories  are  really  fascinating." — Cincinnati  Commercial. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  MAGO;  or,  A  Phoe- 
nician Expedition.  B.C.  iooo.  By  Leon  Cahun.  With  73 
illustrations  by  P.  Philippoteaux.  Translated  from  the  French 
by  Ellen  E.  Frewer.     One  vol.,  8vo,  $2.50. 

THEOPHILUS  AND  OTHERS.  By  Mary  Mapes  Dodge.  A 
book  for  older  readers.     One  vol.,  i2mo,  $1.50. 

"The  whole  series  is  very  clever,  and  makes  a  volume  of  most 
amusing  reading." — British  Quarterly  Review. 

SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES.  Two  Series.  Each  one  vol.,  i2mo, 
$1.50. 

"  Of  these  stories,  we  have  simply  to  say  they  are  charming,  writ- 
ten in  a  most  chaste,  quiet,  and  yet  somehow  intense  style,  and 
thoroughly  beautiful  in  their  spirit  and  their  lessons." — The  Chris- 
tian Register. 

HANDICAPPED.     By  Marion  Harland.    One  vol.,  i2mo,  $1.50. 

DR.  JOHNS.  Being  a  Narrative  of  Certain  Events  in  the  Life  of  an 
Orthodox  Minister  in  Connecticut.  By  Donald  G.  Mitchell. 
Two  vols.,  i2mo,  $3.50. 

THE  COSSACKS.  A  Story  of  Russian  Life.  Translated  by  Eugene 
Schuyler,  from  the  Russian  of  Count  Leo  Tolstoy.  One  vol., 
l2mo,   $1.25. 

RUDDER  GRANGE.  By  Frank  R  Stockton.  A  New  and  En- 
larged Edition.     One  vol.,  i6mo,  paper,  60  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  TRIAL;  or,  Old  School  and  New. 
By  A.   Perry.     One  vol.,  i2mo,  Second  Edition,  $1.00. 


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THE   ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN  NOVELS. 

New  Edition  in  Handsome  Hindina.     "Each,  one  vol.  lSmo, 
uniform.    Extra  Cloth,  $1.25  per  vol. 

"  These  delightful  works  well  deserve  their  great  success.  .  .  .  Not  only  is 
the  couleur  locale  admirably  preserved,  but  the  very  spirit  of  those  who  took  part  in 
the  events  is  preserved." — President  Andrew  D.  White,  LL.D. 

FRIEND  FRITZ.  A  Tale  of  the  Banks  of  the  Lauter.  In- 
cluding a  Story  of  College  Life. — "Maitre  Naulot." 

"  'Friend  Fritz '  is  a  charmingly  sunny  and  refreshing  story." — iV.  Y.  Tribune. 

THE  CONSCRIPT.  A  Tale  of  the  French  War  of  1813.  With 
four  lull-page  illustrations. 

"  It  is  hardly  fiction — it  is  history  in  the  guise  of  fiction,  and  that  part  of  his- 
tory which  historians  hardly  write,  concerning;  the  disaster,  the  ruin,  the  sickness, 
the  poverty,  and  the  utter  misery  and  suffering  which  war  brings  upon  the  people." — 
Cincinnati  Dai.y  Commercial. 

WATERLOO.  A  Story  of  the  Hundred  Days.  Being  a  Sequel 
to   ''  The  Conscript."     With  four  full-page  illustrations. 

"  Written  in  that  charming  style  of  simplicity  which  has  made  the  Erckmann- 
Chatrian  works  popular  in  every  language  in  which  they  have  been  published." — 
New  York  Daily  Herald. 

THE  PLEBISCITE.  The  Miller's  Story  of  the  War.  A  vivid 
Narrative  of  Events  in  connection  with  the  great  Franco-Prussian 
War  of  187 1. 

THE  BLOCKADE  OF  PHALSBURG.  An  Episode  of  the  Fall 
of  the  First  French  Empire.  With  four  full-page  illustrations 
and  a  portrait  of  the  authors. 

"  Not  only  are  they  interesting  historically,  but  intrinsically  a  pleasant,  well-con- 
structed plot,  serving  in  each  case  to  connect  the  great  events  which  they  so  graph- 
ically treat,  and  the  style  being  as  vigorous  and  charming  as  it  is  pure  and 
refreshing." — Philadelphia  Daily  Inquirer. 

INVASION  OF  FRANCE  IN  1814.  With  the  Night  March  past 
Phalsburg.  With  a  Memoir  of  the  Authors.  With  four  full- 
page  illustrations. 

"  All  their  nove's  are  noted  for  the  same  admirable  qualities — simple  and  effective 
realism  of  plot,  incident  and  language,  and  a  disclosure  of  the  horrid  individual 
aspects  of  war.     They  are  absolutely  perfect  of  their  kind." — N.  Y.  Evening  Mail. 

MADAME  THERESE,    or,  the  Volunteers  of  '92.       With  four 

full-page  illustrations. 
"  It  is  a  boy's  story — that  is,  supposed  to  be  written  by  a  boy — and  has  all  the 
freshness,  the  unconscious   simplicity   and   naivete  which   the  imagined  authorship 
should  imply  ;  while  nothing  more  graphic,  more  clearly   and  vividly  pictorial,  has 
been  brought  before  the  public  for  many  a  day." — Boston  Commonwealth. 

*#*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  bj 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    Publishers, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


GUERNDALE 

By  J.  S.,  of  Dale. 


1  Vol.,  12mo.  -  Price  $1.25. 


Guerndale  is  a  distinctly  modern  novel,  and  its 
claim  to  consideration  lies  in  its  revelation  of  modern 
tendencies.  It  is  as  far  removed  on  the  07ie  hand  from 
the  current  type  of  over-wrought  psychological  study, 
as  on  the  other  from  the  older  conventional  romance. 
Its  original  and  striking  quality  does  not  depend  on 
eccentricity,  but  on  the  fresh  force  in  it  and  the  direct- 
ness of  its  dealings  with  the  life  of  to-day. 

"  '  Guerndale'  will  at  once  take  rank  as  one  of  the  cleverest  and  best 
written  works  of  fiction  of  the  year." — Chicago   Tribtine. 


"  It  has  thought,  vigor  and  passion,  and  has  not  a  drowsy  page  between 
the  covers." — N.    Y.  Home  Journal. 


"Almost  every  page  shows  traces  of  thought  and  fancy,  often  even  of 
grace." — Boston   Courier. 


"  It  shows  greater  power  and  gives  greater  promise  than  any  American 
romance  of  the  year  by  an  unknown  writer." — N.    Y.    World. 


"After  endless  novels  of  culture,  here  is  a  novel  of  power ;  after  a  flood 
of  social  analysis  and  portraiture,  here  is  a  story  of  genuine  passion  and 
of  very  considerable  insight  of  the  deeper  sort."  —  Christian  Union. 

"  The  plot  of  the  story,  or  rather  of  the  romance,  for  no  other  name 
properly  describes  it,  is  full  of  delicacy  and  beauty.  .  .  The  author 
has  given  us  a  story  such  as  we  have  not  had  in  this  country  since  the 
time  of  Hawthorne." — Boston  Advertiser. 


***  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  Publishers, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


A   NEW   EDITION, 

UNIFORM    WITH    THIS    EDITION    OF    "CREOLE    DAYS." 


The    Grandissimes. 

A    STORY  OF  CREOLE  LIFE. 
One  volume,  i2mo,  extra  cloth $1.25 

The  extraordinary  interest  excited  by  Mr.  Cable's  sketches  of  life  in  the 
old  French  quarter  of  New  Orleans,  in  his  first  book,  "  Old  Creole  Days," 
will  be  still  further  aroused  by  his  novel  of  Creole  life. 

The  scene  of  the  story  is  laid  in  New  Orleans,  in  the  earlier  years  of  the 
century,  at  the  time  of  the  cession  of  Louisiana  to  the  United  States  by 
Napoleon.  With  'wonderful  delicacy  of  touch,  Mr.  Cable  outlines  his  plot, 
portraying  the  stubborn  adherence  of  the  Creoles  to  the  old  regime,  their 
unwillingness  to  enter  the  Union,  the  feud  of  the  Grandissimes  and  the 
Fusiliers,  and  its  far-reaching  consequences.  All  the  characters  of  the  story 
have  an  originality  and  distinctness  that  make  them  veritable  creations. 


"  Such  a  book  goes  far  towards  establishing  an  epoch  in  fiction,  and 
it  places  it  beyond  a  doubt  that  we  have  in  Mr.  Cable  a  novelist  of  pos- 
itive originality,  and  of  the  very  first  guality." — Boston  Journal. 

"  Mr.  Cable  shoivs  the  instincts  of  a  thorough  artist,  as  well  as  the 
genius  of  a  novelist  of  the  first  rank.  .     .     It  would  be  difficult  to 

imagine  two  lovelier  types  of  womanhood  than  the  youthful  widow 
Aurore  and  her  daughter  Clotilde,  or  a  stronger,  more  majestic  specimen 
of  the  thorough  gentleman  than  Honor e  Grandissime." — 

Baltimore  Gazette. 

"  'The  Grandissimes''  is  a  novel  that  repays  study.  It  opens  to  most 
of  us  an  unknown  society,  an  unknown  world,  absolutely  fresh  char- 
acters, a  dialect  of  which  we  had  o?ily  fragments  before,  and  it  illumi- 
nates a  historical  period  that  was  in  the  dark.  It  is,  in  many 
respects,  the  most  original  contribution  to  American  fiction." — 

Hartford  Courant. 

"  There  are  few  living  American  writers  who  can  reproduce  for  us 
more  perfectly  than  Mr.  Cable  does,  in  his  best  moments,  the  speech,  the 
manners,  the  whole  social  at?nosphere  of  a  remote  time  and  a  peculiar 
people.  Characters  stand  out  from  his  pa&es  with  a  life-like  distinctness  ; 
and  in  their  dialogue  we  hear  the  very  tones  of  their  voice  and  catch  the 
eccentricities  of  their  accent.  A  delicious  flavor  of  humor  penetrates 
the  story ;  and  the  tragic  portions  .  .  .  are  handled  with  rare 
strength." — New  York   Tribune. 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS,  Publishers, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


